


Our Bread and Butter

by maschh



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Anal Sex, Begging, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 44,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: The last half of Liverpool's 2018-19 season, through the eyes of Virgil and the injured Ox, starting with the loss to City. Marbella, Dubai, UCL, cup games and smut included.





	1. Want and Need

**Author's Note:**

> I have an aversion to chaptered fics, but they are, inevitably, cleaner, so here we are. A possible prequel could make this a series again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the City game, Virgil is uncharacteristically subdued. Stuck on the bench, Ox may just offer a unique perspective.

He’s rooming with Ox and he’s grateful for it.

The worst part about is losing is the look on people’s faces. It happens when you let in a goal, too. They look at you with shock, disgust, betrayal, even. No matter how much you know – you fucking  _know_ , this is your  _job_ , you’ve imagined every possible outcome, you’ve not done anything else with your life since you were selling ice cream with your neighbors from your too-cold Dutch backyard – that it wasn’t your fault. That individual errors happen (mostly to other people), and that, actually, before Lovren made his trademark mistake, five or six other little mistakes happened, over several players, you even made a tiny one of your own. But the mistakes were so slight that they go unpunished 99% of the time. You can hardly say  _that_  to the man behind the goal when he looks at you with all the disappointment of a kid who finds out after so many years that you’re not his real father. But you know – if you’re Virgil van Dijk, you know.

He doesn’t look at anyone’s face after the final whistle. He lets his eyes flicker down or his vision blur for the high fives, the good games. But his expression stays neutral, his back straight, and his head high. He might just be Liverpool Football Club.

And Ox not being on the pitch means he looks at Virgil differently. That’s how it works. Today, despite everything, he is just a fan. A spectator. But he’s Ox, and he’ll be back in the team, so there is in his face – and maybe Virgil’s imagining it – a unique type of sympathy.

They booked a hotel because of the late kickoff and, Virgil suspects, because they knew they’d either be celebrating or drowning their sorrows. It is still January in northern England. Some of them will clear off home along the M58, sure, but who wants to face their missus after a night like that?

Ox clatters into the room a few minutes after he does. Still doesn’t move as carefully as he should. Virgil makes a small noise in greeting, fiddling in his bag for his shower things. He feels split open, the dejection and anger making his nerves jangle and his heart race and he doesn’t want Ox to see. He craves the hot faucet. It’s not like him.

When he glances up, Ox’s face is searching. His hair is wet for some reason, his smile apologetic. “Hey,” he mumbles, and as soon as he passes through the tiny hotel room hallway, Virgil speeds past him for the bathroom.

“Hey!” he hears Ox cry. “Virgil! I need a piss.”

He almost doesn’t answer at all. “Sorry!” he calls as he turns on the water. Scalding for such a big man. He likes it as hot as any woman he’s ever showered with.

Ox bangs on the door and shouts something he can’t hear. The water is in his ears, cascading down his head and over his closed eyes. He lets it slow his heart rate. Ox, the loss, are all miles away.

He finally leaves the bathroom in a towel and a haze of steam, and Ox bounds up from his bed and nudges him out of the way. “Dickhead.”

“There are other toilets, you know,” he says to the slamming door, but takes the opportunity to change and start doing his hair in the mirror.

Ox is out less than a minute later, in his briefs alone, smiling like he usually is. He plops onto his bed.

He's lying on his stomach and looking at Virgil like he’s expecting him to say something. When he doesn’t: “It only took a minute, could’ve let me go first.” But he has this gleam in his eye.

“Pfft. You could have used any toilet in this massive hotel. But you waited here instead.”

Ox shrugs, runs his hand over his own curly hair and watches as Virgil puts products in. “Mr. High Maintenance, huh.”

“Says the man who needs to use  _this_  particular toilet.”

Ox laughs hard. Virgil can tell it's a release; he watches his head bow and his shoulders shake, fighting back a smile himself.

“Give off, will you?” Ox says, but there’s no malice in it.

Virgil grunts and ignores him.

“Hey, what if  _I_  want the mirror, eh?”

“I’m finished, ah?” Virgil says in that deep voice, turning around. He sneers down at Ox on the bed and it cows him a little. But then Virgil lies down beside him and stares at the ceiling like he might see a constellation up there. His aching muscles sigh in relief.

Without thinking, Ox drapes his arm over Virgil’s torso. But there’s no way to do that without holding him close, almost like they’re about to go to sleep. Virgil doesn’t flinch. In fact, his eyes slide slowly shut.

“You would have done it,” Virgil says, barely moving his lips, and Ox is not sure he heard.

“Hmm?” Ox says. He’d been thinking about turning off the lights.

“You would have done it. Today. Scored.” He sighs. “We needed you.”

Ox grips him tighter. “We always need you.” Virgil opens his eyes and looks at Ox, and, somehow, he is searching for sincerity. Ox grins and buries his face in the duvet for a second. It's too much. Each looking at the other like they might pull back at any moment. “Of course we do. We love you. We always need you.” It earns him a smile.

Virgil’s heart is thudding against Ox’s forearm, faster and faster. His gaze hasn’t faltered. Ox hauls himself onto his elbow. He summons his hard-won bravery and presses a kiss into Virgil’s shoulder, holding his gaze. Virgil tries hard to do nothing, but the corners of his mouth turn up and he’s blinking a little faster, like Ox is too bright. It’s something he (they, any one of them) might do on the pitch. But this is different: Ox nearly naked and eyes glued to his.

He places another kiss on the inside of his shoulder, inching toward Virgil’s pecs, his collarbone. The big man’s eyelashes are fluttering and his breathing is coming faster. Ox slides a hand under his thin peach-colored T-shirt and traces patterns into the soft, firm skin. Virgil’s nipples harden and it makes Ox stare. He’s never seen that before – the man is always so relaxed. He grazes the nipple with his teeth and Virgil makes a sound, just breath catching in the back of his throat, but it’s enough to make the heat pool in Ox’s stomach, make his own breathing louder, heavy with want.

Virgil sits up hurriedly, takes his shirt off with his typical efficiency. Ox makes a noise like an animal and straddles him, holds his hips tight and… Virgil lets him.

“Never seen your nipples hard before,” he says softly, pressing Virgil into the bed.

Virgil scoffs, grinning despite himself. “Creep.”

“Mmm, yes,” Ox nuzzles his stubble into Virgil’s chest, pressing kisses there. “Correct.” Virgil rolls his eyes but his hand is in Ox’s hair, pulling just hard enough. Ox runs his nails along Virgil’s obliques and alternately squeezes, letting his mouth drift again to his nipple. He circles it with his tongue, sucks for just a second so that the other man gasps. Virgil's all too aware of the lack of friction on his overheated, painfully hard dick. He grunts and tries to move his hips, seeking something, anything, but Ox does not relent.

“Let me, let me,” Virgil whispers. He’s used to asking, being gentle. Never been able to exert all his power when having sex – never had to. He feels Ox smile into the kisses on his stomach. It makes his insides flutter.

“You want it?”

“Yes, Alex,” Virgil says, in a weaker tone than he means to. “I want it.”

Ox moves the kisses up to his neck, merciless, using his teeth. “What is it you want?” he teases.

“Please, Alex,” begs Virgil. His hips are rocking slightly, as much as he dares, against Ox’s.

“Call me Ox.” He lets his lips brush against Virgil’s ear and it sends chills down his spine.

“Ox,” he breathes instinctively. He still has a hand in Ox’s hair, but the other, he realizes, is lying obediently at his side. “Please, Ox—”

“I like it when you beg,” Ox whispers, and rewards Virgil by grinding his crotch against his, making them both groan. “But you have to tell me what you want, baby.”

Virgil’s eyes close again. Ox watches his Adam’s apple bob and can’t resist pressing a kiss into the underside of his jaw. “So good,” he murmurs between kisses. “Need you.”

“Your hands,” Virgil manages. “Please.”

Ox grins. “I can manage that.” He shimmies down Virgil’s body and pulls down his oversized pajama pants halfway. Then his boxers, not without difficulty given how hard he is.

“You’re big,” Ox says accidentally, and Virgil smirks. But before he can reply, both of Ox’s warm hands are caressing his dick, playing with it leisurely, too slow. His hips stutter and Ox pushes them down. The pre-come is making it easier, but it’s not enough. Virgil pants anyway, putting one useless arm behind his head, unable to look away. He bites his lip, desperate.

“You want my mouth, don’t you?” Ox says in that falsely calm voice, smooth and low. Virgil nods.

“Say it.”

“I want—”

“Say Ox. Say it nicely.”

He growls but obeys. “Ox. I want your mouth. Please, use your mouth.”

Ox smiles. He keeps one hand stroking the base and finds a kind of rhythm. He has to have done this before. Virgil’s other hand threads through Ox’s hair, it’s an instinct, his eyes close and he lets go completely. Ox holds his hips down, and he forgets everything except the sensation that keeps him pinned to the bed, helpless, undone. He’s muttering incoherent fragments, mostly Dutch, and Ox’s name, begging as the other man slurps louder, the lewd sounds echoing off the walls. He circles his tongue around the head, tasting the pre-come before sucking him down again. The feeling in his stomach gets stronger, he knows he’s close. And then Ox pulls back, watches him with that determined gaze, and slowly, slowly, circles a finger around his hole, nothing more than a ghost of a touch. His arousal spikes, and, to his own surprise, he comes all over Ox’s hand. The younger man strokes him through it, till it's almost painful.

Ox lies back down next to him, separate but close enough to touch. “Bet I could’ve made you come a few more times,” he says lowly.

“Don’t,” Virgil laughs, breathless. He looks pointedly at Ox’s neglected cock. “Don’t you need to – ?”

“Yeah.” Ox’s cock is somewhat shorter, but obscenely thick. Virgil can’t help but imagine how it feels when he pushes it inside you, the stretch. Imagines the way he uses it, to fuck without mercy. “Won’t take much, mind.” He tries to draw it out, to put on a show, but it all happens too fast. He's panting and then he's coming, hard and fast, all over his stomach, groaning Virgil’s name. Just as he’s recovering, Virgil leans down and licks his stomach with unexpected boldness. Ox almost laughs in surprise, but he can’t, the sight of Virgil licking his fingers clean of his come is too overwhelming. “Fuck,” he murmurs. Amused, Virgil hollows his cheeks. “Ugh, you might kill me, man.”

“You know, if you really want to get clean,” Virgil grins, “there’s always the shower.”


	2. Don't Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil sits the Wolves game and no one on Earth is happy about it. Except maybe Ox, beside him on the couch.

Every single player that walked by him panicked when they saw him on the physio table. Reserves, first team, didn’t matter. Without fail, each one of them went through the same routine. Their eyes widened, they took a step backwards – one or two even raised a hand to their chest. The first time (it was Milly), Virgil’s sheepish, flattered smile and hurried explanation were real. The fifth time, he practically barks at poor Robbo. "I'm fine! Just getting a rub down!” while Gini cracks up beside him.

“I’m very injured, though,” Gini says gravely. “ _Very_  injured.”

“Yeah, right, sod off,” Robbo mutters as he traipses away. Gini laughs even harder.

There’s no league like it, Virgil knows it’s true. But the step up even from Southampton is more intense than he anticipated. His first December in a Liverpool shirt has been the hardest of his life. No other league plays every three days for six straight weeks. During the first cold month of the year. But he’s a professional footballer and he likes his job, so he won’t tell the boss that he always gets sick when the seasons change. Won’t talk about the twinge in his hamstring, for which he sometimes takes paracetamol but is manageable as long as he can keep reading the game like he does. As long as he keeps using that big brain more rigorously than his well-drilled but fallible body (despite the hype that the media creates, despite the fear he strikes into elite attackers, he is aware that he is all too imperfect). Even though he’s in the best shape of his life, his greatest strength is one he keeps secret: he knows exactly how much his body can give.

Gini, he suspects, is similar. Less heralded, which he prefers. Sometimes Virgil thinks that only he and Klopp know that Gini is a secret weapon. Virgil watches the physio cater to Gini’s thighs and wonders if he’s ever even found a knot in there. Gini wanted to be an acrobat as a kid, he confessed to Virgil once. Virgil laughed at the time, but realized soon afterward – he’d have made it.

His own thighs ache just right as his physio works them. “Got a call from the boss last night.”

“Yeah?” Gini opens his eyes and instinctively echoes Virgil’s low tone, though they are speaking Dutch. “How come?”

Virgil shrugs, careful not to meet his gaze. “Wants me to sit the Wolves game.”

“And you don’t want to?”

“’Course not.”

“Right. How do you feel?”

“Dunno. He’ll make an excuse for me.” He can feel Gini’s eyes on him, can picture the look on his face. It’ll be a knowing one. No professional athlete is ever playing at 100%. And the higher the level, the bigger the risk. Career-ending injuries have been the subject of nightmares he’s had since he was sixteen. No more than once a year. At Groningen they had sports psychologists.

“Who will he play?” Gini wonders aloud. “Not Joel, not Joe…”

“Dejan.”

“Isn’t he hurt?”

Virgil shrugs. “Not officially.” Gini swears lowly.

“But you’re okay, right?” Gini touches his shoulder, and Virgil looks up by accident. The concern in his voice is so apparent that it makes an embarrassing lump rise in Virgil’s throat.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, and he realizes as soon as he says it that it’s true. “It’s just – a change. Well. You know what it's like.”

Gini flinches, but it might be the trainer working on his leg. “You do get used to it. I promise. December’s the worst.”

Virgil scoff-laughs.

“You – you know Klopp’s just scared of losing you, right? I mean – ” he tries to laugh, gesturing to the doorway that their teammates keep passing through – “we all are.”

Virgil stares straight ahead. He doesn’t know what to say to that. Not when he hears it from Gini, nor anyone. When Klopp greeted him on the phone the previous night, his mouth went dry. Though the manager no longer seems like a celebrity, his praise, when it occurs, still overwhelms them all. They say Neymar is the real boss at PSG, and at Barcelona it’s Messi. At Liverpool, it really is Klopp – doing what he gets paid for.

“He’s not made that call to me, after all,” Gini says, perhaps because he thinks Virgil has stopped listening. When he looks over, Gini is carefully examining his shorts.

“Gini, he knows exactly what you do. Trust me.” Gini glances up, the kid from Rotterdam behind his eyes for a half second. He doesn’t look at anyone else in the squad like that: he can’t. “Man, Klopp’s your biggest fan.”

Gini smiles again, and relief floods Virgil’s body like a tonic. It feels so good that he goes on. “You think he puts you in the same class as Hendo? Milner? Lallana? Pshh.” He raises his hand to indicate a higher level. “You’re the pace setter, you know? The clock we all tick to.”

“Alright, enough.” Gini shoves his shoulder. The effort makes him move so much that his physio objects. “Sorry, man.” 

 

 

 _Klopp called me_ , Gini’s text reads.  _I’m out too. Not even allowed on the bench._

Virgil is splayed on his king-size bed, propped up against the headboard. A vaguely familiar American movie from the ’80’s plays in the background. He grins.  _Told you so._

A new text appears and his heart accelerates without his permission.  _Heard you’re out for Wolves._  He clicks on it instinctively, and the person is still typing. Ox. Heat is already coursing through his veins as he remembers the way the other man laid between his legs, the way he grinned before he took his dick in his mouth, like it was something to savor. The way his lips were puffy afterwards and his eyes watered and still he smiled. The way he tried so hard to draw out his own orgasm, but couldn’t help it, had to come all over himself with Virgil’s name on his tongue.

His vision has blurred, remembering, and he has to focus on the new words on the screen.  _Everything ok big man?_

_Yeah great. He just doesn’t want to risk anything_

_Course. Klopp always knows_

_Yeah. I’d rather play though. It’ll be Dejan and Fab he said_

_Rough_

_Fab can do it_

_But Dejan’s hurt_

_Yeah. Don’t tell the boss tho_

_That dickhead_

Virgil just smiles. He likes Lovren fine, but he’ll never be the first to jump to his defense. He stopped making Lovren’s type of blinders when he was a teenager. The last time he switched off badly during a match, the Celtic boss threatened to send him to the Dutch third division. Lennon, for whom only brown players were lazy, and even the most lackluster reserve was “just lacking match practice” as long as he was a fellow Irishman, remains seared in Virgil’s mind, for better or worse.

Ox has texted again.  _I reckon he doesn’t care about the FA Cup you know. He wants the Champions League_

_Probably right_

_Not even on the bench?_

_Nope :/_

_Ah so at home on the telly?_

Virgil’s stomach leaps. It takes him too long to type just a few words.  _Yeah guess so_

_Nice and warm_

Virgil snickers. He's referencing the alternative commentary video Virgil made once. "Nice and warm," he went, referring to the cuddles between players after goals. Ox has teased him mercilessly about it ever since, especially since the big man likes a cuddle.

_My radiator’s broken though_

_Let me come over and fix it_

Ox is kind of smooth.

 

 

“I brought snacks,” he says when Virgil opens the door for him. It’s redundant – he’s loaded down with crisps, pretzels, and sweets.

“Careful with those,” Virgil says, laughing as Ox bundles inside.

“Yeah, you’re not kidding,” he says, setting them down on the table and patting his toned tummy with great affection. “They’ll go straight here.”

Virgil rolls his eyes and takes the oversized pretzel bag. “Not what I meant. But thanks, mate.”

“Nice setup you’ve got,” Ox says, looking around. He actually whistles. “Right, we’re watching the matches here from now on. Fucking hell, you’ve got more systems than I have! Yep. Definitely watching things here.”

Virgil is amused. “You knew I had the PS4, man. The Xbox. Every away game.”

“Fair enough. Didn’t realize you’re as mad for it as I am.  _And_  it’s warm! I like your house, you know. Hey!” He’s just realized. “Thought the radiator was broken.”

“Yeah, I was kidding.”

“Is that the Dutch sense of humor?” Virgil shrugs. “Just as well,” says Ox, plopping down on the loveseat. “I’m not as handy as that anyway. Throw us the popcorn.”

“What, this?” Virgil cringes at the sight of the sweet popcorn bag. Ox nods, but catches it deftly.

“Good lad. Sit down. It’s nearly kick off.”

Virgil grins and sits beside him, putting his feet up and his arms behind his head. There isn’t much room, but. “It’s better than sitting on the bench.”

Ox laughs. “You hate the cold so much.”

“Yeah. Well, so do you. Or you should, anyway, with that knee."

“A bit,” Ox concedes, a lightness in his voice because Virgil is touching him now, pressing his thumb against the inside of his thigh. The silence stretches. Suddenly they can hear every word of Martin Tyler’s pre-match warble.

“How is it?” asks Virgil quietly.

Ox clears his throat. “It’s okay. ’S gotten a lot better. Here, want to see the scar?” Virgil nods, and Ox leans against the arm and puts his leg in Virgil’s lap. The defender gently pulls up Ox’s trackie bottoms and runs his finger over the long, wide line on his kneecap. Ox shudders, and, to compensate, perhaps, he says, “I’m still a bit scared for it, you know, have to get back into the swing of full training and then matches, but I’ll get used to that…” – he’s rambling now. This has been the main focus of his life, such a singular aim for all these months.

“I can do most everything these days.”

“Oh yeah?” Virgil has a wolfish grin. Ox laughs and drops his gaze. There might be the slightest of blushes beneath his freckles. It makes Virgil bite his lip and feel a bit like he’s won something.

But then the lineups appear on the screen, and Ox swings his leg back underneath him. They discuss the virtues of Fabinho playing center back, Camacho and Jones getting their debuts, and the break that Klopp’s given so many of his starters. Which, admittedly, feels pretty damn good. The sofa with just the right amount of give, and Ox’s warmth pressed against his side are such a relief that it surprises him, as he watches the rabid fans and cold winds of Wolverhampton. Lovren goes down with an injury in the first three minutes, and Klopp is forced to put on a third teenager. Both Ox and Virgil break into a chorus of swears, not just because an injury at center half is the last thing they need, but because Lovren’s really fucked this now, and it’s all too predictable. Origi manages to score against the run of play (“I really rate him, you know?” says Ox), but it’s not enough, and the two of them are left unsatisfied after the ninety minutes, stunned into uncharacteristic silence as the final whistle blows and they are forced to watch the handshakes, the grimaces on their teammates’ faces.

“Hate losing,” Ox mutters. “Especially from the sofa.”

Virgil grunts. He hasn’t missed a game since September.

“Reckon the boss doesn’t care about the FA Cup,” mumbles Ox.

“Doesn’t look like it. Does that upset you?” asks Virgil, curious.

There’s a cheeky look in his eye. “I’ve only won about three of them.”

Virgil chuckles. “And you want another?”

“Hey, why not?” Ox shrugs. But he hardly ever gets to talk about this stuff, especially now that he’s basically outside of the squad. He’s trying. “I mean, the cup was a bigger deal when I was younger. Lots of people don’t care as much anymore.” He sighs. “Can’t blame the gaffer, really.”

“Except…” Virgil’s tone is knowing.

“Except. If he were English he’d have started you or Gini or both.”

Virgil tsks. He’s too Dutch not to. “But we  _don’t_  have the depth. Like Ci—”

“Like City does. Yeah, they’re ruining football for the whole bloody country,” Ox laughs bitterly. They’ve joked about it for months as a team, made light of City’s billions, their excess, their breach of Financial Fair Play. But the truth of it – the all-time club records that they’ve had to beat just to have a chance at the title this season – is overwhelming. And it feels like all they’re doing these days is trying not to be overwhelmed.

“It’s hard,” says Virgil simply, looking down, and Ox can almost see the weight of the city on his shoulders.

“I can’t imagine, big man,” says Ox, even softer. He leans his head back against the couch, brushes his lips against Virgil’s shoulder and plants the smallest kiss. It still sends a shiver up Virgil’s spine. “Maybe you did need this break.”

“I guess the boss knows, huh?”

“Maybe he does.”

“Fuck the cups, anyway,” Virgil grins. He grips Ox’s thigh, high and tight just like he likes.

"Yeah,” Ox laughs. “Who needs another FA Cup?”

 


	3. More by Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No one's comfortable with a one-nil victory. It's not just center halves."
> 
> Virgil gets anxious just like anyone else, but he can only share it with Ox. Post Brighton.

Brighton away hardly strikes fear into the hearts of men. But they need a penalty to win it in the end. Chances missed, chances made – those are forgotten by the history books. But their defensive record stays intact. And Virgil is just how Ox likes him – imperious, commanding, big and strong and confident on the ball. The rest of the world likes him that way too, whether they know it or not. Spraying fifty-yard passes to Robertson and Trent on the wings. (“Lucky for you they’re so fast,” he’ll tease him later. Virgil won’t smile: his passes are perfect.) Attackers panic at the prospect of taking him on, and he wins everything in the air. And gets his clean sheet to match. 

Ox scrolls on his phone, just outside the locker room. He’s no hanger-on, but he’s not in the team either, and sitting there definitely makes him uncomfortable. But it’s a discomfort that he masochistically sort of craves, one he imagines an impetus. Besides, he has to see Virgil, and it only feels strange because Klopp is keeping them for longer than usual. In actuality, Ox hasn’t been in for the team talks in months. Preoccupied on Instagram, he doesn’t realize he’s rereading old posts till he sees the red heart is already full. Finally, the door opens and Virgil, surprisingly, is the first one out. He’s got his suitcase, headphones, and Liverpool trackies on. Ox leaps up, and Virgil glances nervously behind him before they perform the briefest of handshake-hugs. Much too short, much too hard. It makes Ox ache to caress like the softie he secretly is.

“All right?” Ox tries.

His eyes downcast, Virgil shakes his head just slightly, as in can’t-talk-now. Another surreptitious glance behind him. “Want to get dinner?”

“Yeah, ’course, mate,” Ox grins. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

 

 

They’re recognized in the hotel lobby, and they have to ask for a room with two double beds, but it’s worth it. Because the walls are thick and the room service is good. And Virgil didn’t put his shirt on after he finished showering and it made Ox take his shirt off too. An odd competitive streak he’ll surely never get over.

Virgil is stretched out on his stomach eating an ice lolly with surprising expertise, while Ox is propped up against the headboard with his knees up to his chin. Virgil slurps the last of his ice cream and bins the stick effortlessly, before sighing in pleasure and putting his head against the mattress, facing Ox.  
  
“So what did Klopp say? Kept you in there long enough.” 

Virgil groans, as if he dreads recounting it. “Ugh, you should’ve been there, mate.”

“No,” says Ox, his tone steely. “It’s too distracting. If I’m not in the team, I’m not in the team.”

“You’ll come straight back in when you’re fit, it’s not like you’re second string—”

“No,” says Ox again, just as firmly. “I don’t rate that. Got my own things to be working on. Not long though.”

“All right,” says Virgil, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

“You’re just stalling now.”

“No.”

Ox laughs at his petulance. “C’mon! What did he say?” Virgil looks up at him from the mattress, licks his lips, maybe hopes he’ll distract him. “Can I guess?”

Virgil smiles. “Okay." 

“Disappointed in the attack. Reckon he was probably happy with the defending. Thinks we – er, you lot – need to do more. Like always. He was probably a mad bastard considering he kept you there for so long.”

Pleased, Virgil turns his head away just for a second to hide his smile, and Ox crows triumphantly. “Nah, nah, nah, you’re …maybe half right. Of course he wanted more from us. Of course we should have attacked better. He  _wasn’t_  happy with the defense. We let off too many chances, especially Fabinho” – and Virgil loves Fabinho, Ox knows, but the sigh in his voice speaks volumes of the unseen work, mental and physical, he had to do to make Fabinho look good. He can make anyone look good, but some are easier to play with than others. For example, Joe Gomez – the only person in the world that can make Ox jealous. “He was upset that Alisson conceded that corner. You know. He’s Klopp. He sees everything. He just had a lot to say.”

Ox suspects that it was a bit harsher than that, considering the big defender is probably Klopp’s favorite, but he shuts his mouth on that subject and instead says, “What did you think about it?”

Virgil rolls over onto his back. It’s clear that it’s all he’s been thinking about since the final whistle. “I think we were lucky. More lucky than good. It’s much harder to be a defender when your attack doesn’t score. Especially those three – we know they  _can_ , so it’s hard when they  _don’t_. I get frustrated.” He glances up at Ox and laughs a little. “Well. You know me.”

“I do, yeah.” Ox loves hearing him like this.

“But. You know. No one’s comfortable with a one-nil victory. It’s not just center halves. I’m just worried that next match we’ll try to overcompensate and not focus on defense.”

Ox nods. Virgil is usually right. As much as about team dynamics as about tactics: it’s not a coincidence that their game changed so drastically as soon as he arrived. Ox pictures him wearing the captain’s armband by accident, and feels his face flush. He has to bring himself back down to earth. “And Trent’s hurt.”

“Ugh,” Virgil says in disgust. “He should have come off." 

“He probably would’ve,” says Ox. “If Lovren hadn’t done the same thing against Wolves last time out.”

Virgil tsks. “That’s true. And Gini too,” he says glumly.

“What?!” So that’s what’s been bothering him.

“His knee or something.” But surely Virgil knows more than that. “He’ll be okay,” he says hastily. “But… I don’t think he can train, and then Klopp will rule him out for the match, so.”

“Fuck that,” says Ox. He is definitely not thinking about how Virgil played – and won clean sheets with – broken ribs, for months. He’s also not thinking about how aroused Virgil splayed like that on the bed is making him. His patience wearing thin, he lets the silence linger, and flicks an imaginary piece of dust off his broad shoulders.

“Anything I can do to make you feel better?”

Virgil’s gaze flicks upward instantly. His eyes light up, and Ox is proud to have brought him back to the present moment, if nothing else. He smiles wickedly and asks, “Are you up for heavy lifting tonight?”

“Do I look like I am?” Virgil indicates his supine position. Ox tries unsuccessfully to not look disappointed. “Hahaha, so that’s what you like me for?”

“Yep,” sighs Ox. “For your muscles.” 

“Just like all the rest,” Virgil teases, grabbing his hip and pulling him in for a kiss. Ox takes the opportunity and straddles him, grinding because he’s quickly getting hard. “Oh, you’ve been waiting for this, huh?”

“Yes,” Ox says pointedly between kisses. “Old man.” Virgil laughs and digs his nails into Ox’s sides till he gasps in delight. Ox backs up for a moment and slides his briefs off. Virgil watches, sliding his own boxers down and lazily stroking himself. 

“Tell me what you wanted.”

Ox climbs back on top of him, planting kisses down his stomach. “I wanted you…” Ox is breathless. “To fuck me, hard.” Virgil groans. There's already pre-come on his long, thick cock. Ox wraps his hand around it, tight but without any hurry. “Up against the wall, holding me there. Fucking hard. Without mercy.”

“Fuck. You want that?” Virgil’s grip is tight on Ox’s shoulder, and there’s a desperate edge to his voice.

Ox keeps caressing his cock, watching it get slicker. Licks his fingers to make it wetter. “So much,” he breathes, soft but easily heard in the sterile hotel room. “Want you to just… destroy me.”

“You’d let me?” Virgil’s panting, eyes locked on Ox.

“Let you? I’d beg for it,” Ox groans. Virgil hums, his eyes-half lidded. “God, I love your cock,” Ox whispers, licking it slowly from base to tip. Virgil’s hips stutter. “Fuck me with it?” Virgil nods. “Fuck me with it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Virgil breathes. Ox grins and takes him in his mouth, holding his hips down and Virgil cries out, the loudest he’s been all night. Ox brings one hand to the base of Virgil’s oversized dick and gets in a rhythm. Ox knows he won’t last long, but he’s determined to get his throat around that cock tonight. He slides further down slowly, savoring the tightness in his throat, the vibrations that make Virgil scream his name and grip his hair tighter. His fingers creep lower, till he’s touching Virgil’s balls, playing with them gently. Without warning, the big man shoots his load down Ox’s throat, making him choke a little and have to pull off.

“Sorry, sorry,” Virgil says when he can speak again. Ox is still wiping his mouth, eyes tearing. He can’t keep his eyes off of Virgil. His dick a deep red because of his exertions.

Virgil sits up and Ox straddles his thigh. “I want to do you right,” he murmurs. “Take it nice and slow and tease you till you’re gagging for it.”

“Like the sound of that,” Ox breathes, rutting desperately against Virgil’s thigh. Virgil holds his throat hard and kisses his jawline, his stubble, uses his teeth till he might leave a mark. Ox whines and pants and comes so, so hard. Virgil holds him through it.

Ox whimpers pathetically, but “You’re so fucking  _sexy_ ,” Virgil whispers in his ear, nibbling the lobe for emphasis. Ox laughs, still panting, chest to chest.

“You feel any better?” he asks with some swagger. An enormous grin on his face, Virgil grips his bum and admits that he might.


	4. On the Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-Palace. Ox has a one-track mind and Virgil has to keep the both of them in check.

Virgil on the brain is the last thing Ox needs. Rehab has been hard enough. The staff are great, they’re attentive and generous, but people have been spoiling him since he signed the contract for Arsenal at eighteen. He desperately wants someone to take the piss. But his teammates are off training together, busier than him, endlessly busy. He can’t help but feel worlds away. He’s been so, so good for so many months, not whinging, not wallowing, stiff upper lip, and Klopp’s promised that he’ll be in the team for the second half of the Champions League. But the last stretch is always the hardest, isn’t it. Like extra time after ninety minutes. He’s fucking sick of the exercise bike. Fucking sick of January.

So it means more when Virgil is tough and tender with him like he needs. He knows that to him it’s second nature, it’s just the way he is. He asks about Ox’s rehab, listens as he gets excited about the new things he can do every week. Teases him for his over the top Instagram videos. Ox is trying not to think about it too much, but he might have to pick up chess or something to fill the hours. FIFA is a shit distraction.

Virgil’s been beating him anyway. “No mercy,” he warned him as they settled in, controllers in hand. Thighs half pressed together despite the size of Virgil’s massive couch.

“Pfft. Wouldn’t want it from you,” said Ox before losing to Virgil’s Ajax as Arsenal, Real Madrid, and Bayern. He examines the controller when Huntelaar skips past Hummels and Virgil takes advantage, slotting the ball in the net for three-nil. “Have you done something to these?”

Virgil laughs as Huntelaar puts his thumb in his mouth and then incongruously does a somersault. “What do you mean? Like hacking?”

“Yeah,” Ox laughs, realizing how stupid he sounds. “Are you a hacker?”

“Yeah, man, all day. Hacking away. You know me.”

“That’s the only explanation,” Ox says, deadpan.

“You want to give up now?” asks Virgil. There’s still thirty minutes to play. To his surprise, Ox is giving him a sideways glance. “What, you do?” he says incredulously. He’s going to tease him about his sudden lack of competitiveness, but then Ox deliberately drops his gaze, up, down, a nice once-over. It looks good on him. Virgil blushes just a little.

“Can think of better things to do,” he says in a low voice.

Virgil actually pauses the game and sits back on his elbows, his posture arrogant but curious. Ox gets the strongest feeling that he hasn’t been touched since that night in Brighton. “And what’s that?” Either that or he’s just really into him.

Ox sighs thoughtfully. “On second thought—” He turns the game back on and utterly fails at a counterattack attempt.

“No chance,” says Virgil as Neuer boots the ball away from outside his eighteen-yard box. “Fuck’s sake,” Ox whines, contorting his body in frustration, half-laughing.

“Pathetic,” Virgil grins. “Truly pathetic.” Ox’s hand slips and a tingle goes up his spine. He manages to hold on to the controller, but he’s certainly stopped defending, and Virgil slides through again to make it four-nil. He doesn’t need to look to know he’s got a semi.

“What?” Virgil looks over as Huntelaar celebrates again.

“Nothing,” Ox says breathlessly. His brain is blaring out one singular thought _: Well, I_   _liked that._

They finish the game in awkward near-silence. Ox is just trying to regulate his breathing, to not give himself away. Maybe Ox is defending better, or maybe Virgil is finally distracted too because the game ends with him almost getting one back before the final whistle.

“All right, that’s enough of that,” Virgil says, gloating, as he tosses the controller onto the couch. He stretches dramatically. “Starting to get embarrassing.”

Ox’s eyes are still glued to the screen, as he concentrates on keeping his dick down. But then he looks over at Virgil, who is still gazing at him. In his fucking grey trackie bottoms. Ox can’t take it any more. He crawls over and straddles him. Smiling, Virgil grips the loops in Ox’s trousers and holds him there, looking up at him curiously. “What, did that turn you on?” He’s half-joking, but when Ox leans in to kiss him Virgil feels how hard he is against him, and  _fuck_. He’s got a freak on his hands. Virgil’s Dutch sensibilities are overloaded and he can hardly focus on kissing Ox back. On gripping his short hairs till he moans, on holding Ox’s hips tight as he desperately grinds against him, the friction both too much and not enough.

Virgil holds Ox by the throat and pushes him back, none too gently. Ox makes a noise straight out of porn.  _Oh._ His pupils are blown out, his face flushed. Slowly, carefully, Virgil pushes his thumb against Ox’s lips and the younger man lets him slide it in, takes the thumb like it’s a dick. Virgil pulls it out again just to feel Ox’s lips with the pad of this thumb. He lets his hand drift down to rest against Ox’s throat. “Fuck,” he murmurs. Virgil slides his hands along Ox’s thighs possessively and sighs like he hadn’t expected the other man to be sitting on his lap, silently begging to be fucked when he’d suggested a game of FIFA. But then – Ox hadn’t texted since that day.

“Do you remember what we said in Brighton?” Ox says, and  _fuck_ , it’s a bit late to be coy about it now.

“Yeah, I do.”

“So?”

Virgil sighs. “I want to. You know I want to. But I have to play tomorrow…”

“Really? You’re one of those?” His voice is dangerously close to a whine, and his hips have started moving unconsciously.

Virgil glances down. “I mean… you want me walking for the match, right?”

Ox grins at that. “We could try it once,” he says, unconvincingly. “Just once gently and see.”

Virgil looks up at him through hooded lids, a devilish gleam in his eye. His grip on Ox’s hips is iron, a reminder of what he wants to do. “Just once? Gently?”

“Only because of the match tomorrow,” Ox says innocently.

“You can’t even keep a straight face,” Virgil points out. “Listen, after the match. In Dubai. I’m all yours.”

“You’re all mine,” Ox echoes, grinning.

“Because I know you,” Virgil continues. “For you, fingering won’t be hard enough.” Ox’s cock jumps at his words, and he starts to grind against Virgil again, leaning in to kiss him. Virgil holds him still, denying him that friction, and says lowly in his ear, “You won’t stop till you’ve milked me dry.”

Ox laughs, delighted. “Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose.” He leans over and lets himself fall from Virgil’s lap back onto the couch. Knowing that Virgil hasn’t taken his eyes off him, he slowly unzips his trousers. Then takes off his shirt. Still hard in his briefs, he lies back down and crosses his ankles, hands behind his head. “I’m a virgin, you know,” he says. Virgil rolls his eyes like  _I know_ , and also  _You’re not really, though._

“Take off your clothes,” says Ox. Taken aback, but willing, Virgil does. “Come here,” he says, crooking his finger. Virgil edges closer, uncertain. Ox whispers in his ear: “Suck my dick.”

Virgil grins and pulls down Ox’s briefs, leaving them halfway down his legs. He grips Ox’s already hard dick and plays with it, almost experimentally. Ox groans and arches his back, watching as Virgil licks his lips and puts his tongue flat against the underside of his dick. “Yes,” he pants. “Just like that.” Virgil lets the tip caress his lips, sucking and licking it over and over again. He worships the head, his saliva keeping it nice and wet, holding the base tight, just like Ox does to him. Ox moans and writhes. “Yes, fuck, so good, Virg.” And then: “Let me fuck your mouth.”

Ox can tell as soon as he said it that no one’s ever said that to him before. But Virgil is nothing if not a fast learner. “Please, Virg. Let me fuck your throat. Want you to choke on my dick.”

“Fuck,” Virgil murmurs. Ox’s voice, raw with lust, is making him harder and, once again, he finds himself obeying. Ox is  _thick_ , he does choke a little, but it just spurs him on. “Good, so good, oh my God…” Virgil takes his hair out and Ox delights, holding his head gently as he nudges himself deeper into the soft heat of Virgil’s throat. “Oh  _fuck_ ,” Ox murmurs, getting into a rhythm, letting Virgil get used to taking his cock. “Fuck, you’re so – good,” Ox breathes, “You’re so sexy like this, your fucking mouth. Can you… can you take it harder?” Virgil manages to nod just a little, and Ox starts thrusting harder, like Virgil has no gag reflex, which, maybe he doesn’t. He lets his jaw go slack and for a few seconds Ox just  _takes_. It’s messy and loud, their sounds echoing off the walls. Ox half wishes someone would walk in. He never thought it’d be like this.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me come,” Ox pants, and Virgil slows up. “No, no, let me come, let me come…” Virgil drops his hand to gently stroke Ox’s balls and right on cue, Ox groans and comes hard, deep into Virgil’s throat. He chokes and sputters and it’s so un-Virgil that Ox almost feels like he’s in a fever dream.

“You’re fucking good at that,” Ox breathes. “Fucking good at everything.” He’s flat on the couch, chest rising and falling heavily, enjoying the view as Virgil pulls off, a trail of saliva connecting his mouth and Ox’s dick for a split second. Virgil leans back on his heels, grinning. Keeps eye contact with Ox as he wipes his mouth and catches his breath.

“You’re welcome,” says Virgil cheekily. He’s staring down at Ox now, his hand wrapped loosely around his achingly hard cock. “I’ll just finish this off now then?” It’s half a question. Without waiting for an answer, he strokes his dick, his massive thighs trembling just a little. Ox watches curiously, and just a few seconds later Virgil pants, “Get on the floor.” Ox hesitates but he listens, his knees scraping the harsh rug as Virgil stands up and steps toward him.

Virgil grunts and tugs, the sound of his wet cock in his hand filling the room. Ox feasts his eyes and vows to himself to never forget this sight. “Please. Come on my face,” he says, taking a chance, and lo and behold, Virgil does.


	5. Nothing Good Happens in January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool face a mid-season "crisis" at the top of the table. Virgil feels the world on his shoulders, but Ox is determined to cheer him up in Dubai.
> 
> Post-Palace and includes Leicester.

They say it’s catching up to them. Chance to go ten points clear earlier this month, but now they’re only four points clear and giving up goals to Palace at home, while City stomp sides primed for relegation. December was miraculous (Virgil, the marvel, got Player of the Month), but even miracles come to an end. 

On the pitch that Saturday, he can’t believe what’s happening around him, can’t stop it. This is the Liverpool that he watched on the telly from Southampton last fall, biting his nails, crossing his fingers. The club that can’t protect a one-goal lead. He loses his voice from yelling. They say it’s catching up to them, but Virgil doesn’t listen to pundits and, thank God, neither does Sadio, because he scores in stoppage time to give them the cushion they so desperately need.

The bit that stays with him is, he is beaten. He and Robbo. Virgil doesn’t know if they’re the best pairing in the league, but he does know if you beat both of them, you have a good chance of scoring. He has no excuse. He’s too old to be switching off when they’re protecting a lead. It’s too much fun to be in the moment, dominating. Like he can’t do off the pitch.

He misses Ox after the final whistle. Normally, he’d be too preoccupied with the result to even think about anything except staying on his feet, withstanding the team talk, getting himself home. Instead, he puts his phone on vibrate and clutches it tight in his fist as he listens to Klopp harangue them, as he changes, as he drives home, blaring loud music to keep himself awake. The hot shower at least is forgiving. He falls into bed, still staring at his silent phone.

 _You see the game?_  He’s too tired to come up with something better.

 _Yeah_ , Ox immediately responds. He’s typing and then he’s deleting it. Virgil watches the dots and groans, impatient.

 _You know I can’t even be mad about it_ , says Virgil.  _Got beaten for the second goal._

 _No_. Virgil rolls his eyes. Ox is gonna make him  _explain_  why he’s feeling so terrible? He pictures him, disinterested as his phone lights up, playing FIFA. Jerking off to straight porn. Wanking someone else off.

 _Yes,_ he types, irritated.  _That was my header._

_Wasn’t your man though_

_Yeah but it was my header. I should’ve had it_

_You can’t do everything babe_ , says Ox. Virgil smiles a little. He likes that text more than he’d ever admit. The tension in his head and neck and shoulders has somewhat – lightened. He  _can’t_  do everything. And he does have to sleep. He puts his phone on silent and lets his eyes close. 

 

 

Dubai is weird, Studge says. “How do you know that?” asks Virgil. They’ve been on the plane too long already. Studge tsks, as if the answer was obvious.

“’S  _weird_ , man. I mean, they’ve still got slaves and shit over there.”

“For real?” Gini’s got earbuds in, his voice much too loud.

“Pshh, yeah. How you think City got rich? It’s not just oil money, bruv. Slave. Labor.”

Gini’s face is the picture of surprise: he looks like an emoji. Virgil has to laugh but manages to hide it behind his hand. 

“Oi,” says Milly from about ten rows away. “No talking about City!”

“Man Shitty,” laughs Sadio to no one at all. 

“Did he hear me?” Studge says to Gomez, who mouths “no” and shakes his head. “Not talking about City!” he yells to Milly. “You City player!”

“And you!”

“For real, though? Slaves?” Gomez says.

“Yeah, man,” Studge says, shaking his head. “You better watch out, they’ll tap you up.” Virgil shakes his head and pointedly puts on his headphones (“You too, Big Virg! Mr. Light Skin over there…”) till Studge is drowned out.

Ox is two rows behind Virgil and one seat over. He’s been trying not to turn around but also trying to, if that makes sense. Every time he’s managed a peek, Ox was passed out. But Virgil doubts he’ll sleep the entire flight, right? He blasts the music into his ears because he’s just had a Mile High Club thought. He puts the cheap airline pillow over his crotch and tilts his seat back, hoping for a bit of rest himself.

He wakes up on a long beach chair, the shade of the cabana not doing much to beat the bright sun. He hasn’t felt the sun on his skin like this in ages. An attendant whose name he forgets appears with a drink in a coconut that looks incredible. “Would you l—”

“Yes,” he blurts, grabbing the coconut from the surprised attendant and taking a long sip. It’s sweeter than he expected.

“Would you like a rub down?” asks the attendant politely, who is wearing about as much as Virgil is – only trunks.

“Um.” He’s not sure why he’s hesitating. His whole body hurts. “Yes. Please.”

“Good,” says the attendant, and Virgil is suddenly aware of how much sun cream he has on. His legs are shining. They look good. He smirks as the attendant starts on his shoulders, working out the tight muscles there, making him groan. The attendant, who looks a bit like Ox, is making little noises, murmuring vague, comforting things as he works his shoulders. “May I go lower?” he says quite clearly, and Virgil assents.

But the attendant has come round the front and is stroking Virgil’s pecs, which are also covered in cream. He doesn’t think to ask, surely this man knows what he’s doing. “May I go lower?” he says again, and moves down to Virgil’s abs without asking, not even massaging anymore, just stroking, it’s odd but he can’t complain. And that really sounded like Ox’s voice, he notices as he feels him grip the top of his trunks, to reach—

He jolts awake and hears himself making a noise. Looking around wildly, only Gomez next to him has noticed. He’s trying not to laugh. Not very hard.

“What were you dreaming about?” snorts Gomez.

“What? Nothing. Shut up.”

“No, you were just – making sounds.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Just like—” Gomez makes a pained noise, vaguely like a dying animal. It’s not loud, at least, but Virgil hopes it’s a poor imitation.

“Fuck off.” Virgil shoves him.

“Is that your cum noise?” asks Gomez, much too knowingly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, eh,” Virgil says, and that shuts him up. He takes a big swig from his water bottle – thankfully his dick has stayed down – and gives Gomez one last scornful look before putting his headphones back on and closing his eyes, trying to concentrate on the most boring TED Talk he could find.

 

 

 _Ask the boss if we can room together_ , Ox had texted. Virgil weakly protested, he didn’t like to ask Klopp for things.  _You’re his favourite_ , Ox insisted, and that had been a sufficient stroke to his ego. Besides, it was probably true.  
  
“Why’s that, big man?”

“No, nothing – just maybe need a br—”

“I’m kidding! Don’t worry about it! I’ll make a note. You all need roommates anyway. Unless someone gets sick.”

— _break from the lads at training_ , he was going to say.

“Was that all, Virg?”

“Huh? Uh, yeah.”

“You seem very… far away. Nothing wrong, I hope?”

“Nah, boss. Just thinking about Leicester.”

“Good. At least someone is. Haha! I’m kidding! Of course I am. It’s all I’m thinking about. Do me a favor, make sure everyone else is thinking about it too, all right? Keep them focused? Good lad.”

 _He said yes_ , Virgil texts, though he can see the top of Ox’s head down the back of the bus.

 _Of course he did_. He can practically hear Ox saying it, the smile in his voice. He also sent the wet emoji. Virgil rolls his eyes even as his stomach jolts.

 

 

They get in early and have evening training. Klopp promises it’ll be light. The weather has got them silly and easily pleased, the beach views and otherworldliness of the place make them goofier even than usual as they cool down. Hanging all over each other, gasping with laughter, the days stretching ahead before they go back to reality feeling like a wonderful, impassable eternity. The beginning of summer holidays.

Ox is smiling more than anyone. “You’ve got your own personal camera crew,” Virgil teases him in a low voice as they traipse back to the locker room.

“Yeah, it’s good, isn’t it?” Ox cracks. “You better watch out,  _I’ll_  be the fans’ favorite before long.”

“Yeah, all right.” Virgil rolls his eyes and refuses to be flattered.

“Give you a run for your money,” he says, gripping Virgil’s hips, soft fingers firm against him. His lower center of gravity almost makes Virgil stumble. He puts his hands on Ox’s to push him off, lingering for an extra second. Ox chuckles, the show-off. When the moment’s passed and Virgil glances up, guilty, only Gomez’s eyes are on him.

 

 

“How was training for you?” Virgil asks when they’re finally alone. His tone is firm, his fingers fiddling with the hotel key.

Ox smirks. “You mean how am I holding up?”

“Yeah. Seriously.”

“Bit stiff.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Normal.”

“Pshh. Not normal,” Virgil says, as they get back to their room, their luggage against the walls. The shades are drawn. Privacy is so precious. “You tore your ACL. MCL. PCL too?  _Nightmare_  injury, man.”

“Yeah, say it again, just like that.”

“Can you be serious for one second?”

“Do I have to?”

“Ox.”

“What?” Now he actually sounds annoyed. Because Virgil cares enough to ask. And not let him deflect.

“Please. Listen, I’m proud of you, how far you’ve come. You’ve worked so hard, I know you have. Can you forgive me for keeping tabs on it? I want you back,” he says, with such intention and tenderness that Ox feels it like electricity gliding over his skin. Pleasure spikes all the way to his core.

He runs his hands through his hair. “Sorry. I. I feel fine, Virg. Really. It  _was_  really just PT today.” Virgil makes a knowing face. “Okay, PT and a bit of ball work. Only  _slightly_  less boring than normal PT. Okay?”

Virgil can smile at that because he’s been injured too and he knows exactly how mind-numbing it can get.

“All right.”

“All right?” Ox steps closer to him, tugs at the bottom of his shirt. Virgil grins. “How’s your body?”

Virgil laughs, that deep laugh that makes his head tilt back. “Don’t worry about me.”

Ox shrugs. “If you say so.”

“I do,” says Virgil, and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s hesitant somehow, softer than usual, each holding onto the other’s jaw. Virgil breaks away first, keeping their foreheads together. He waits for Ox to speak first.

“I’m ready,” he says. His pupils are dilated; he’s breathless. Virgil is holding him by the waist. He kisses him one more time and then moves toward the bed, looking through the night stand with only a hint of hurry.

“When did you put that there, then?”

Virgil laughs. “First thing I did when we got in. Surprised you didn’t see it.”

“Phew. Lucky me,” Ox grins.

Virgil tilts his head, as if Ox has said something very stupid. “Well, I wasn’t going to fuck you without it.” Ox blushes. “Get on the bed."

He takes off his shirt. There’s a commanding tone in his voice that is usually reserved for the pitch. Ox obeys, adrenaline pumping hotly in his veins. “Lie down, on your back. Take off your clothes.” Ox scrambles out of his rugby shirt, his jeans, his briefs. Virgil strips down too, and he climbs onto the bed, on top of Ox. “Let me get you hard.”

He takes him in his hand as they kiss, slowly, languorously. Virgil coaxes his dick hard – it doesn’t take much. Ox whimpers into Virgil’s mouth between kisses. His limbs feel light and airy. “So good,” Virgil whispers. “Fuck. Look at you. You want to be fucked so bad, don’t you.” Ox mumbles something in response. Virgil stills his hand, hard. Ox cries out. It only hurts a bit but it brings him back to earth. “Tell me.”

Ox bites his lip. “Yes,” he whines.

“Yes, what?”

“I want you to… please, please fuck me."

“I didn’t get that.” There’s a laugh in his voice.

Now it’s more like a growl. “Please fuck me, Virg. Here. Now. Fuck me till I can’t walk.”

Virgil trembles a little at that. “Good.” He kisses him. “Asking for what you want. But I have to prepare you first, okay?”

“Y-yeah, ’s okay.”

Virgil grabs the lube and gently separates Ox’s legs. He’s flushed, panting. It makes Virgil swell with pride, knowing he’s the one to have made him unravel like that.

Ox has a sudden thought, and readjusts. “Do you want me turned around?”

“No,” Virgil says sharply, and he stops. “I want to look at you.” Ox licks his lips, gazing up at Virgil like he might be something holy. “Have you done this before?”

“No, I told you, I’m—”

“I mean. Have you ever done it to yourself?”

“Well, in the shower, I’ve… that’s not what you mean, is it?”

“No fingers or anything? Never had anything up there.”

“No. Guess not.”

“You’re gonna be tight.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna hurt a little.”

“I know.”

“But that’s why I’m preparing you, so that you’re ready when I put it in.” Ox’s dick jumps at that, even though Virgil’s not touching him. “God, you want it bad, don’t you?”

Ox laughs. “Quit fucking teasing me, yeah?”

“Okay,” Virgil smiles. He puts in one slick finger. Ox leans his head back in pleasure, back on his elbows, breathing faster than ever. Virgil watches, awed, as his finger slides gently in and out, in and out, what it’s doing to Ox. His other hand sits on Ox’s hip, keeping him torturously still as he’s almost-fucking him with just one finger.

“More, more,” Ox says eventually. “Please, Virg.”

Virgil grins and puts in a second finger. It’s tight – his fingers are big. Ox groans and writhes, his eyes closed as the sound of his wet, wet fingers gets louder. “Look at me.”

“Virg, I swear, I’ll fucking come if I look at you—”

“You can do it.” Virgil stops moving his fingers. “Open your eyes. Breathe.”

Ox tries. He’s squints, as if that will make it easier. His chest rising and falling like he’s been on the pitch. His dick is an angry dark red and unflagging. “Virg, fuck.”

“Are you going to let me fuck you?” Virgil says. “Or are you going to come from just my fingers?”  _You slut_. Ox can almost hear it.

He clears his throat. “Fuck me,” he says, like a challenge. “Stop being so gentle and fuck me.”

Virgil is absolutely still for a moment, his eyes boring into Ox’s. He presses a third finger against, not in, but against, and Ox arches his back and groans.

Appeased, Virgil takes out his fingers. Before Ox can take a breath, his cock is pressed against his hole. It’s wet enough, but still a relief to have that friction back. Ox feels a flicker of pride as Virgil eases it in. It’s uncomfortable enough to bring him back to earth, but gratifying to see, finally, how much he’s affecting Virgil, cool as he’s trying to be.

“Okay?” is all Virgil can say, one hand still on his hip, controlling the pace.

“Yeah,” Ox pants.

“Hurts?"

“Yeah.”

Virgil grins wickedly, realizing. “You like it.”

“Yeah. Keep it – keep it slow like that."

Virgil grunts but obeys. “Fucking tight.” There are shimmers of sweat around his hairline. Ox can tell everything in him wants to speed up the pace, to just  _take._  Instead, he strokes slowly, powerfully, deeper each time. Ox watches his abs work.

“Yes. Deeper,” he pants, and Virgil smirks.

“I’m not even half in,” he brags. Ox’s eyes roll back in his head, his hips pliant against Virgil’s strong hands. Lets Virgil go deeper, deeper, till he is so fucking  _full_ , full of his cock. He is finally speeding up, and Ox lets his body give. Virgil is saying things, maybe half in Dutch, but he’s hardly listening, his every nerve ending is ignited, his heart ramming against his ribcage. He knows he’s saying things back, words of assent, pleas. His eyes focus again on Virgil’s face and he reads his lips.

“Can I come inside you?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” he cries, as he comes all over himself, just thinking about his hole being filled.

Virgil groans as he comes a few seconds later, and collapses half on top of him. He stays there for a time, but when he pulls out, it’s slow and delicate.

“You did so good,” he murmurs, still out of breath.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

Virgil laughs, and rolls over to lie beside him, gazing at Ox’s smirk, his closed lids. Kisses his elbow. Ox’s eyes open. “Yeah, you did.  _Fucking_ natural.”

Ox laughs despite himself, slaps him on the arm. “Shut up.”

They stay there, letting the sounds of their breathing fill the room, laughing occasionally at nothing more than relief. Just as Ox is starting to feel too sticky, Virgil’s cool fingers press against his stomach. Slowly, carefully soaking up some of his come. Ox feels his nipples harden and his breath hitch. Virgil puts his middle finger into his mouth, then takes it out and puts his index finger in Ox’s. Leaves it there, watches his lips form a perfect “o.”

“You came when I did.”

“Yeah.”

“When I came inside you. Y-you like that?”

Ox shrugs, embarrassed.

“And. You like it when I’m rough with you. Tell you what to do.”

“So do you,” Ox points out.

Virgil grins sheepishly. “Okay. Fair enough.”

Ox doesn’t want to give up anything, though, so he says, “I may like it  _more_.”

“Maybe,” Virgil agrees. And then: “You know, I was thinking. I really want to get you …open.” Ox’s heart rate speeds up again. “So I can do you like you wanted me to. You know, like we said. Remember?”

Remember? It’s all Ox can think about in his presence. And sometimes not.

“Like…” Virgil is hesitant. “If I really want to rail you… and I didn’t need to prep you…”

“What do you mean? Get me open? Like a butt plug?” He pretends to think about it, he’s covered in come and he doesn’t want to seem like  _too_ much of a slut. “If that’s what you want,” Ox says.

“Hmm?”

“I’d do it.”

“You would?”

“I’d try it. Maybe just once. See if it works. I have to say, though, I like you preparing me just fine."

“I know,” Virgil laughs. “But by that time, you’ve practically come already.”

“Hey!”

“It’s fine,” says Virgil. “I don’t mind. And it’ll get easier.” He shrugs, like he talks about butt plugs all the time. “Just a thought I had.”

“Yeah,” Ox says, trying hard to hide his embarrassment. “Not a bad idea.”

“Thanks, mate,” Virgil says sarcastically.

“Hey,” says Ox, a new thought in his head. “Had you done that before?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, had you fucked like that before? With a bloke, I mean.” He lowers his voice, a force of habit.

Virgil hesitates. His gaze drops. “Yeah, a few times.”

“What?! With who?”

“Guy in Scotland. At Celtic.”

“A few times?”

“Yeah. He wasn’t a great person, but he liked to fuck. So.”

“You going to tell me who it was?”

“No, I can’t. Please. Don’t ask me to.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Don’t feel bad, hey? It was just some fun.”

“No, I don’t. I’ve fucked a lot of girls like – in that same situation.”

“Yeah, exactly. Comes with the territory. Let’s get some sleep, yeah? Unless, uh.” He glances up at Ox’s eyes, trying not to smile.

Ox chuckles. “You want to do it again?”

“Why not?”

 

 

Time flies. They even get to the beach one day, a few of them. It’s bizarre, Virgil thinks, the skyscrapers seem much too close, but the sand is white and the water is clean and the hot sun reminds him how shit England is, really. And then he holds Ox close in the water and he forgets. He can’t tell if the other lads notice any difference, but for some reason, he’s finding it hard to care.

All too soon, it ends. They have to pack up and leave again. The plane is much too cold, he has to nudge past Joel beside him and get more clothes from his luggage. When they land in Manchester seven hours later, he's wearing half his training gear, shivering.

Joel, who has been asleep for the past few hours, stares. “You getting sick, man?”

Training jacket all the way up over his chattering teeth, Virgil emphatically shakes his head.

 

 

There is snow on the ground, and he’s still trying not to cough, but he played with broken ribs for months. And they need three points to stay seven clear. And he’s Virgil van Dijk and it’s Liverpool.

And Sadio, they’re so lucky to have him, little Sadio, scores before three minutes have gone. They miss more golden chances, and Naby wins them a penalty that Martin Atkinson doesn’t give. People will forget that – Virgil resolves not to, to praise him for his play afterwards because he desperately needs it.

He almost loses his head twice. First, when Alisson plays it back to him when he has a man on his shoulder. Helpless, he tries his best to be big and bad and close the man down. It’s a relief when his shot goes wide, but he’s too furious to do anything but raise his arms in complaint. Everything he can think of to say would be too cruel.

And. They get scored on. Robbo gave away the free kick but. It’s his fault. And nothing hurts your pride like giving away a goal. He’d rather run stairs till he can’t feel his legs anymore. Maguire gets a step on him and hits the target from three yards out. It doesn’t matter that it’s his first real mistake in Liverpool colors after thirteen months. It doesn’t matter unless his teammates up front bail him out. And they try, but they can’t.

He doesn’t speak to anyone after the match. He’ll shower at home. As he gets in his car, his phone goes off. He almost wants to chuck it against the door but when he reads the text, his pulse slows. It’s Ox.  _Can I come over?_

 

 

Virgil opens the door for him silently and stands aside to let him through. Ox’s glance up at him is a nervous one. Are they all scared of him? “All right, big man?” He nods shortly.

“I brought take away,” he sings.

Virgil can’t help but smile. “Yeah, are you coming in or what?”

Ox smiles, pleased. “Cheers, man.” He bundles in, and Virgil leads them to the kitchen where he sets his bags down. “Chinese, of course. Have you eaten?”

“Nope,” says Virgil.

“Brilliant.”

“Thanks,” he says to Ox when they’ve finished. “I needed it.” They’re sat at his dining table, so massive that they are oddly far away from each other.

“Yeah, you needed that soup,” Ox says, like he’s gross for being sick. Like they’re in primary school again.

“And it was  _delicious_ ,” Virgil says pointedly. “Thanks. Really.”

“How you holding up?”

Virgil coughs and rests his cheekbone on his fist. His head looks heavy. He lifts his shoulders slightly. “You know.”

“Well. You fuck too much, you get sick. Everyone knows that.”

Virgil laughs. “What?!”

Ox nods wisely. “I’m immune to it, I’ve fucked so much at this point that…”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re just trying to  _distract_  me from the fact that you got me sick.”

“How have I gotten you sick when I never got sick at all? You’re lucky I’m even here in this infected—” he looks around with a mock disgusted face— “place at all. Risking my  _life._ ”

“Yeah, all right. I wish you  _would_  get sick,” he sniffs.

“No, you don’t.” Ox winks and does his best to look cute.

Virgil relents. “No. I don’t.” But his smile quickly fades and Ox wants desperately to hold him.

“It’s gonna be fine, you know,” he says softly. Virgil looks pained. “It will. Whatever happens.” Virgil’s not meeting his eyes and Ox finds himself thinking about a triumphant Virgil lifting the trophy with Celtic (he Googled the pictures) while Ox was watching Arsenal’s title hopes end early and had to convince himself he was happy with the FA Cup. Remembers a runner-up spot in League One as a teenager. Nothing like winning a title. He’s never been known for his stamina, only his pace.

He stands up from the table and hugs Virgil from behind. He’s warmer and soft, and Ox feels his heart speed up from his touch. He reaches up and holds Ox’s arm there, just over his collarbone.

“Missed you,” whispers Virgil.

Ox kisses his cheek. “I missed you too.”

“I hate the cold,” Virgil says. “I try not to, cause it’s a stereotype, but. I hate it.”

Ox half wants to laugh, instinctively, maybe from discomfort. But then he remembers his dad playing away at Millwall, Everton, Chelsea. The stories he told, of bananas thrown and epithets muttered at every stoppage of play. Of how he never wanted to take a corner or a throw-in because he was afraid it made him an easier target, for racist chants as much as for bottles.

“You’re the best center half this club has ever seen,” Ox hears himself saying. “If we can’t do it with you, we can’t do it with anyone.”

And they stay there, holding each other, till they lose track of time. Ox eventually lets him go and stretches his arms toward the ceiling.

“Can I stay over?”

Virgil looks up at him, confused. “Yeah. You want to?”

Ox shrugs. “Only if I can sleep in your bed.”

Virgil grins. “Thought I was going to get you sick.”

“Pshh. I mean, I’ve already got your germs. What’s a little more?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe sex is great sex. This is fantasy, please wear a latex.


	6. What Perspective?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool play West Ham away in perhaps their worst performance of the season. They scrape a second tie in a row thanks to Mané's goal, although it was clearly offside in the buildup.

Their play is truly atrocious. Shocking. Virgil knows what Ox will say. What anyone with a hint of perspective to say (though that leaves out most of football). It’s a sign of how good they are that a tie feels like a loss. That is the reasonable viewpoint.

But Virgil’s there every day, week in, week out. He knows what they’re capable of doing. And tonight they don’t deserve even the one point. West Ham broke through several times, Sadio scored the goal even though Milly was clearly offside, and Alisson nearly made a nightmare mistake. Virgil had to bail him out more than once. He doesn’t know who’s more nervous about him missing the Bayern game, Alisson or himself. He’s never played a game for the club without Virgil. And though they’re friendly in training, Virgil can tell he half thinks of him as “the best center half in the league.” The downcast eyes, the overly excited smiles when Virgil praises him, the passes he gives him that he’s got no right to, when he’s got a man on his shoulder…

Alisson is generally good at his job, but Virgil doesn’t have much patience for keepers. Madmen, the lot of them.

But they get the point and that’s that, nowhere to go but forward. He texts Ox _Come over_ just to see what he’ll do. It’s late and it’s the middle of the week and it feels like they’ve lost. Might as well be shagging.

Except.

 _Are you gonna take it out on me?_ Ox responds. No emoji, no hint of a tone. Virgil rolls his eyes and grunts at his phone. He’s propped up on the couch with _Gogglebox_ on in the background.

_Would you like me to?_

Ox types and deletes, types and deletes. _Dunno I’m a bit knackered_

_Good haha so am I_

_Phew_

Virgil doesn’t respond because he doesn’t want to ask him to come over again. Five minutes later, he gets his wish. _Be there in twenty then shall I?_

He sends the thumbs up emoji back and tries to stay awake.

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. It’s eleven, he realizes as he picks up his phone. He opens the door and of course it’s Ox, shivering in a hoodie and bundling in like the weirdo he is.

“Do you not have a warmer jacket?” Virgil finds himself saying. _Mom_.

“It’s only a ten-second walk from your driveway,” Ox mumbles, but he’s still shivering.

“Right,” Virgil says, trying not to laugh.

“ _Gogglebox_ then? Go on.” Ox strides over to the couch.

“You like that?”

“What, don’t you?”

Virgil shrugs and sits beside him, leaning against the arm. “It’s not so bad.”

“Oh, this lot, I like them,” Ox grins. He glances over at Virgil and taps his thighs. Virgil smiles and puts his legs in his lap. “Cor, watch it,” he cries in mock pain – his legs are big and strong, almost intimidatingly so, but that’s why Ox loves them. When they’re settled in, he rubs his thigh, as if to warm him up. It's distracting.

“D’you want to talk about it?” he says eventually. Virgil sighs and looks the other way, as if he hasn’t said anything. Blows out a puff of air. “Don’t have to.”

Virgil always does, though. When it comes to football, he’s as verbose as Cruyff. Slightly less mad.

“Umm,” he says, and Ox knows he’s got him. He’s choosing his words carefully. “On a personal level, I was happier than Leicester.” Ox nods encouragingly. “Didn’t get beaten.”

If Virgil was a Sunday league player, this’d be selfish. But they’re professionals, seen and worshipped and often berated by millions in every country in the world. It means more to have played a good game for yourself – it means you stay in a job.

“But I’m worried. Everyone says Naby got beaten for that ball in, and, he did. He’s not the fastest. But it was Robbo’s man. Nobody’s talking about that. It was _Robbo’s_ man, Naby picked him up as a last-ditch thing, but. Antonio’s fast, he scores goals. He was Robbo’s to deal with. We'd established that,” he says, remembering.

“So… are you worried that because nobody talks about it…?”

“He’s had a bad few weeks. I don’t know if he knows – I mean I’m sure he knows, but…”

“Have you told him?”

Virgil hesitates. “I think he’s tired. The way he runs, every game. And we need him at his best for what’s coming up.”

“You don’t want to tell him?”

“Is it my job to tell him?”

Ox shrugs. “Sorry. I just thought – if you really think no one else has noticed.”

“I mean. Klopp notices, I think.” He rubs his face with his hands. “I don’t know, I’m always talking to him, you know. Constantly. And it’s not just him. Our attack was all over the place, I just can’t help as much with that.”

Ox strokes his leg. “You can’t do everything.”

Virgil grins. “I’m gonna try, though.” He stretches.

“Bournemouth’ll be good, though,” Ox says.

“It’ll have to,” Virgil half laughs.

“It will. Home. Point to prove. Got the perfect amount of time to prepare for it. Crowd’ll be up for it, that’s what I see on the socials anyway,” he grins. “And then we’re away again.”

“You better hope you are,” Virgil teases.

“Oi! I will be. Marbella, right?”

“Maybe. For you.”

“No, I’ve got to come, you’ll be lonely without me,” Ox whines. “You better hope _you_ are, with that _suspension_ and all,” he says in a deliberately camp voice. “Big bad man getting suspended.”

“Don’t start, I can’t think about Bayern now,” moans Virgil, head in his hands. “I’ll be biting my nails off.”

“Gross.”

“Will you sit next to me as I bite my nails off?”

“D’you mean will I watch the match with you?” Ox exhales loudly, as if trying to decide between several offers. His tight grip on Virgil’s thighs belies his nonchalance. “Well, I’d rather be _any_ where else, so…"

“Yes. That is a yes. Thank you for that.”

“You’re the one that’s got to keep them calm,” Ox says, as if he’s just thought of it. Virgil scratches his head and looks down, embarrassed all the more because he knows it’s true. “They’re all shitting it. It’s you. And Gini. Mo. Milly, even. The cool ones have got to be loudest for the next few weeks. Months.”

“Easy for you to say,” Virgil says, he’s not sure why.

“It is, though,” Ox insists. “From the outside it’s much easier to see that when Sadio or Hendo or even Bobby sometimes is in charge, we get nervous. Tighten up. I know you do it already,” he says, massaging one of Virgil’s thighs now, appeasing him, “but we need you to keep doing it.”

“Yeah, okay,” Virgil agrees. He sounds exhausted. “Well, we’ll see how they get on without me against Bayern, huh?”

“Yeah,” says Ox simply. “We will. You have faith?”

“I have to, don’t I?” Virgil smiles wanly. “What about you?”

“I do. As long as we play Fabinho at the back.”

“You know, you’re good at that,” Virgil murmurs, leaning back further against the arm.

“Ah, you like that,” Ox says, pleased. “You falling asleep?”

“Little bit.”

“Hey!” Ox accidentally-on-purpose nudges Virgil’s bulge with his forearm, and he reacts theatrically. “Can we at least go to the bedroom?”

 

 

Virgil has propped himself up against the headboard by the time Ox joins him. In his pajamas, on top of the covers. Ox is nowhere near as depleted. He opens his eyes as Ox traipses in wearing just his boxers, reluctant to move but not disinterested.

Ox straddles his legs and kisses him, soft and then harder, nibbling his bottom lip. He can feel Ox getting hard already. “Let me wank you off,” he whispers between kisses. “Please. Want to feel you.”

Virgil assents, slipping down his trousers and his briefs. Ox takes Virgil’s cock in his hand, stroking it till it slowly gets hard. “Fuck, you feel so good. Been so long,” Ox says for some reason, Virgil can’t concentrate. He pants and moans as Ox kisses his neck and strokes him, agonizingly slowly. His eyes are closed, he can feel Ox’s cock, hard against him, every now and then, and he pictures it straining against the fabric of his boxers, getting wetter by the second. The heat is coiling in his stomach already. He feels so easy, so pliable in Ox’s hands. Ox kisses his jawbone, his stubble, moving upwards, kissing his earlobe, biting it gently.

“So good,” he’s saying. “So good to me.”

Ox brings his other hand down to play with his balls, cupping and squeezing and making Virgil cry out in pleasure. He forgets where he is, his eyes close – he just wants to give and give and give. He pictures Ox’s mouth on his balls and all of a sudden, he comes.

When he opens his eyes, Ox is sitting back on his heels. He’s watching him, stroking his cock lazily. He licks his hand for good measure and puts it back on his dick. “Want you to watch me,” he pants. Sated, Virgil feels drunk, like he doesn’t know what he’s seeing and he’ll forget it tomorrow. But still, his eyes are trained on Ox’s thick, thick cock. “You know what I think about when I’m alone?” he breathes. Always the showman. “I think about… ah, fuck. I think about fucking you.” His voice is trembling; he’s determined to draw it out as long as possible. To let Virgil hear everything he has to say. “N-not you fucking me. _Me_ fucking _you_. You… letting me. Fuck. You letting me _take_ you. I come – fuck, Virg, I come so hard.”

“So come then,” Virgil says. Ox leans his head back, a smile on his face, and does.


	7. Must Get Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil and Ox get less face time than they're used to in Marbella, and they cope with that stress differently. Features the home game against Bournemouth.

The fans are there two hours before kickoff, making the stadium awash with noise, a constant buzzing. He can see some of the younger players, the benchwarmers, the Jordan Hendersons, flinch when they step out onto the grass and lower their eyes. He soaks it all in, shoulders back, a small grin on for the one million cameras at every possible angle. It’s not faked. He feels like steel on days like this, when the crowd is loud and backing them. No attacker has a chance, they’re silly for even trying. He’d never say it, though. He distracts himself with his shouting; he’s always shouting.

Fabinho and Keita are starting. The cold British sun is high, but it almost feels like a European night. Yes, Milly’s at right back, but it’s only wee Bournemouth. The thought makes him grin: it’s something his Celtic teammates would say. Before they win the double. Joel gives him a look like, _Why are you smiling?_ He winks.

The whistle blows and the nerves that are normally tingling set absolutely alight. There isn’t much defending to do, which is how he likes it. They’re up three-nil after 50 minutes. They have more than a point to prove. He had a feeling Gini would score today, as soon as he found out he was ill. _You play with broken ribs, I will play with diarrhea_ , Gini told him, with that million-dollar smile. He loses his mind when Gini lobs the keeper, sprints all the way down like he never does, just to hug him, and it’s worth it, to see that smile up close, to see him at his best. _I didn’t even know you could do that._

Mo and Bobby look like themselves again, doing what they’re best at. Sadio is their pride and joy. It could have been four or five, and there’s a small voice in the back of his head that whines that it wasn’t. His eyes stray to the goal difference every time he looks at the table. But he remembers how it feels to play as a striker and – he doesn’t miss it.

Trent gets a nice run out. His teammates are smiling. It’s almost enough.

 

 

It’s that time of year again. Valentine’s Day, and Klopp whisks them away. Marbella brings back great memories from when he first signed for the club and was shy for about a day. He already knew a few of them: Gini, Hendo, Sadio. His size didn’t hurt either, never has.

As a vacation spot, it’s warmer than Dubai was, calmer, easier. They love the training camps, but something is in the air this time around. An edginess around the fringes of the squad. Shaqiri’s injured but makes the trip. Lovren doesn’t, so Mo is anxious and just as anxious not to show it. Virgil makes sure to tease him at training like he likes. 

He forgets to request Ox as a roommate, and curses as soon as he realizes. Sometimes it feels like an unwelcome distraction, this secret. Sometimes they don’t text for days. The uncertainty is not something he’s used to. A tiny part of him that he doesn’t like to acknowledge feels whored out. But Ox is too sweet for that, right?

His phone lights up at dinner. _Who’re you rooming with?_ The jackass. He glances down the table. Ox is staring determinedly at Hendo.

_Robbo. You?_

_Trent_

He desperately wants to send back something like “Unlucky.” But it feels like a cop-out: he wants to talk face-to-face. He stares down the table with such intensity that eventually Ox does glance in his direction and flinches. Satisfied, Virgil nudges Gini beside him and starts telling him something.

 

 

They train all day and bike around afterwards, mug and pose for the camera. It’s still fun, Virgil can’t complain. The sun on his skin feels like medicine.

Ox joins them for half a training session, and Virgil feels himself hovering, body always angled towards him, no matter where they are on the pitch. It’s throwing him off a little, if he’s honest. Klopp won’t let Ox play five-a-side yet because Alberto is too fond of the tackle, but he’s smiling, he’s chatting up the cameras afterward. Virgil knows that’s how he likes it.

Sometimes he feels guilty for not being more affectionate. Ox is injured, after all. He’s tough, but it’s harder than he lets on. Injuries mean a lot – a _lot_ – of time alone. Even more time away from the squad. They’re every athlete’s greatest fear.

He makes sure he’s walking next to Ox after dinner that night. He’s meant to go to Gini’s room for cards, but he’s hanging back. “Hey,” he murmurs, in a voice that is somehow both hushed and too loud. Ox purses his lips.

“Hey.”

“Uh – how’s rooming with Trent?”

Ox shrugs. “You know.” He half laughs. “Terrible.”

Virgil smiles and before he can think about it, slings his arm around his shoulders. Ox stiffens a little, and he drops it. “Sorry.” They’re falling far behind the other lads.

“Why didn’t you ask Klopp to room with me?” Ox is saying.

Virgil’s brow furrows. “Why didn’t you?”

“It’s _your_ job, remember?”

“How’s that – I did it last time!”

“That’s not the point. He loves you, you’re his…” Ox’s voice lowers dangerously. “What, are you afraid he’d suspect something?”

Virgil shakes his head violently. They’ve stopped in the center of the hallway. “No. I’m not.”

Ox sighs. “’S not a big deal anyway.”

“No.” He shrugs.

“It’s 2019, I…”

They each are looking in opposite directions, Virgil rapping his fingers against his thigh, Ox tapping his foot. He pointedly turns on his heel and starts them walking again, slower than ever.

“Nobody _can_ know, though,” says Ox.

“Yeah, of course.”

“I miss you,” says Ox, so lowly that Virgil thinks he imagined it.

Virgil smiles and takes out his phone. Ox stares. How can he be so rude? He’s tapping away, and Ox is silently starting to fume, until he taps him on the shoulder and shows him.

The text, drafted to Ox, reads: _When we get home I’m gonna rail you like I’ve promised. No Bayern game, no need to walk._

Ox stops in his tracks. When he looks up at Virgil, his mouth is slightly open and his eyes are desperate with want. So much of him wants to find a supply closet and say fuck it, you’re getting it now. But cameras are cameras and he’s still a professional footballer.

“Don’t look at me like that,” says Virgil, his mouth dry.

Ox laughs, but the sound is ragged. “I’ll try. Let’s walk.”

They set off silently, and Virgil hits the elevator button. “I’ve got plans to play Hearts with Gini and them.” Ox nods shortly. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” They get into the elevator, they’re on the same floor. Both are trying to slow their breathing, avoiding the other’s eye.

When they finally separate, Ox can’t help yelling over his shoulder, with the sudden joy that the pride of public affection can bring, “Text me, yeah?”

Virgil grins. “Yes.”

 

 

Valentine’s night, he’s feeling restless, he’s back in the hotel room before nine. The shades are drawn and the room feels too small. He’s scrolling through the channels like a pensioner when he stumbles upon it. He can’t look away.

There’s a woman, naked, draped over a washing machine, legs spread. A man, just as naked, strolls around her, hard. Virgil turns up the volume as much as he dares. Something about their sizes appeals – the man is clearly a six-footer, probably close to Virgil’s size, and the woman is curvy and proportionate to him. His quads flex under the blanket. The man is behind the woman now, teasing, his dick against her. She’s loud, appreciative, begging, but obediently still. Virgil’s wet cock is out, his hand wrapped around it.

Slowly, slowly, he holds her hips and slides his dick in. One hand braces himself roughly against her back. She writhes and moans and Virgil realizes the washing machine is on. Suddenly, he hears a sound from the little hotel hall.

Fast as an elite athlete, he pulls up his briefs and sweats before vaulting himself – very painfully – across the bed to grab the remote and turn it off. It takes two tries, but by the time Robbo is in the door, he’s sure he didn’t see what was onscreen.

“All right?” he says, staring at Virgil, who is still on his stomach diagonally across the bed.

“Yeah.”

His brow furrows. He smells vaguely of beer. “What you doing, then?”

“Nothing, man,” Virgil says aggressively. Robbo is having none of it. He uses his leverage and grabs the remote out of Virgil’s hand. When he hits POWER, the channel is still the same, the volume just as high.

“Wha—Oh, I like that!” Robbo says, getting closer to the screen as if to confirm what he’s saying. “You dirty bastard. You should’ve just said. Wh – are you hard as well?” He laughs, not unkindly. “Well, don’t mind me.” He throws himself onto Virgil’s bed, leaning against the other pillow, eyes on the screen.

Alarmed, but his brain still somewhat foggy, Virgil backs up and takes his place again, face burning, looking determinedly at the screen. His cock is unflagging. Unable to resist any longer, he pulls it out – they see each other’s dicks all the time – and rubs and tugs. His pulse is throbbing in his ears. He doesn’t dare to look at Robbo, but he also feels he ought to. His cock is so wet, and instinctively he knows Robbo’s cock is out too. The woman’s moans feel too loud, echoing off the walls, but anything to drown out the sound of their cocks in their hands and their little, desperate sounds they can’t hide.

“You close?” Robbo says, his voice somewhat jagged.

“Yeah,” says Virgil.

“Finish,” says Robbo. Virgil stills his hand and finally looks over at him. “Finish,” he says again, with more authority. He reaches over and takes Virgil’s soaked cock in his hand. “Finish,” he says, and Virgil grunts in surprise. His eyes glaze over and he comes, all over both their hands.

A few seconds later, he's back to earth and he realizes Robbo is still stroking, but his eyes are on him instead of the TV. “You look… fuck,” Robbo mutters. Virgil slides his briefs down and off, so he’s just in the T-shirt.

Something rises in him and he climbs over Robbo, a knee on either side of him, and takes his cock in his hand, stroking roughly.

“Is this what you want?”

“Yes, God,” Robbo whines, his hand pliant under Virgil’s.

He takes Robbo’s jaw in his hand and holds him there. “You want this?” Robbo tries to nod, the pressure of Virgil’s touch against his chin overwhelming. He keeps making these little noises of pleasure. They get more intense the rougher Virgil is. He breathes hotly in his ear, more a display of dominance than affection. Robbo keens – he’s about to come, Virgil can tell. “Finish,” he pants, lips brushing his lobe. “Fucking finish.”

As soon as he says it, Robbo comes loudly. Satisfied, Virgil sits back on his haunches. Waits till Robbo’s eyes open and gives him an unfathomable smile. Robbo glances down at Virgil’s big soft dick questioningly as he suddenly gets up. “Get to your own bed,” he says, turning off the lights on his way to the bathroom. And then, almost to himself, “Gotta put the lock on the door.”

 

 

He tries to be normal as they prepare to fly out, but normal means having his huge headphones on and not saying anything to Ox, so. Normal feels hard. And he feels Robbo’s eyes on him.

He sends the text as they’re lifting off, so it’ll greet Ox when they land. Then he closes his eyes and tries to catch up on sleep.

_I miss you too. I miss having privacy with you. But I’m so proud of you and how hard you’ve worked. I can’t wait till you're back on the pitch with me_


	8. Suspension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil and Ox pay some attention to the Bayern game and a lot more to each other.

Virgil is fucking big. That’s the first thought Ox has when he opens the front door. He’s wearing the black hoodie that makes him look even broader. Grinning ear to ear, with a grocery bag in one arm.

Ox catches his breath. “All right, all right. What’s this?”

Virgil scoffs and eases past him. “Hey. Don’t worry about it.” He sets it down on Ox’s dining room table without invitation, and sighs loudly, swinging his arms. He turns around to Ox, as if surprised that he’s followed him in.

“How’s your body?” he says, like he always does. The tone is different this time.

Ox blushes. His heart is pounding, and his face hurts from smiling. “Good.”

“Good.” He’s got that devious smile that makes Ox’s head swim. But it’s nearly kick off. Ox drops his gaze, and Virgil takes the hint.

“Got the setup?”

“Yeah, ’course, mate," Ox says, and leads the way to his living room. He’s not sure why he’s being so buddy-buddy. Like they haven’t been fucking each other senseless for weeks.

The TV is already on. Ox turns up the volume and plops onto the couch. Virgil sits beside him, close enough that normally he’d be a distraction. But it’s the Champions League knockout stage and they are Liverpool.

Bayern doesn’t even manage a shot on target, but it ends nil-nil. Mané and Mo get all the chances, and miss every one of them. Ox winces, thinking about how many irrelevant people will slate them. He prays Dejan can keep Mo off his phone for a couple of days. Virgil shouts the entire time, in English, like he’s on the pitch. He rates Fabinho and Matip, but curses at Trent and Robbo. Ox half wishes he could film him.

“Fuck’s sake, ref,” he cries as Sadio gets fouled again and again.

They both sigh as the final whistle blows, rocking back and forth on their toes. They hardly sat down at all.

“Did it,” Ox says. “Did it without you. Clean sheet."

“Yeah.” Virgil’s eyes are still stuck to the screen, lost in thought.

“C’mon,” says Ox, “you didn’t think they’d manage it. Now we just need a draw in Munich, and—”

“Score draw.”

“Well, yeah. Score draw. Or the win, of course. Hey. Done all right, mate!”

“Yeah,” he sighs, running his hands over his face.

Ox eyes him knowingly. “You think we’d have won if you played.”

“Of course. Who would I be if I didn’t?” he says with a wry grin. “They’d have an easier time going forward, not worrying about the defense.”

“Never been short of ego, you.”

Virgil finally looks over, and the gleam in his eye is back. “So? That’s how you like me, isn’t it?”

Ox pointedly picks up the remote and turns off the television. The sudden silence makes his heart speed up. He’s fighting a smile.

“Isn’t it?” Virgil says, nearing that commanding tone that he normally reserves for the pitch.

“Yeah,” Ox says. It feels like a confession.

“Good.” Virgil edges closer to him, suddenly looking as nervous as Ox feels. He takes him by the shoulders, soft at first, but then tries to move him, like they’re jockeying on the field. Ox holds his ground. “Just checking. Don’t give out on me.”

Ox grips his hips and holds him so they’re chest to chest. “Dickhead,” he mutters.

Virgil kisses him. They’re grinning at first, but then Virgil presses his thumb against his jaw and holds him still, opens his mouth gently. Ox slides his hands under his shirt, against his hips.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted you,” Virgil groans, and it’s true, Ox can feel his cock hard against him. Instinctively, he puts his hand flat against the bulge. It’s gratifying. But Virgil takes his wrist and backs them into the wall, pressing him there, sliding his thigh between Ox’s legs. “I want to do you right here,” he murmurs, gripping Ox’s bum, half lifting him into his arms. “Like this. Can I?”

“Yeah,” Ox breathes, distracted by the pressure against his cock that keeps him pressed to the wall. Virgil’s hands wrap around his waistband, and they work together to get out of their clothes in seconds, giggling, breathing hard.

“So, you’re ready for me?” Virgil says, stroking the other man’s cock idly, gazing down at him.

“Fuck, yes, Virg,” Ox pants, holding on to him just to stay on his feet.

Virgil leans down and kisses along his jawline, his neck. “Good lad.” Ox’s eyelashes flutter at the praise. His breath hitches when Virgil’s teeth catch his pulse point. “Do I have to prepare you?” he says, the words vibrating against Ox’s skin.

“No,” Ox. “Just lube.”

Virgil grins wickedly and kisses him, keeping that pressure against his collarbone. “Be right back.” He saunters off languidly, and returns a few seconds later.

“That in the grocery bag?” Ox laughs, half-delirious with anticipation. Virgil bites his lip and nods. With a hint of uncharacteristic nervousness, he puts a lubed-up finger against Ox’s hole, and then another. His breath catches a little, but they slide in easily. One, two.

“Fuck,” Virgil breathes, as he gently moves his fingers.

“What, too loose?” Ox manages.

“No,” Virgil laughs, and the sound always eases Ox’s nerves. “Fucking perfect.” He pulls his fingers out and lubes up his cock. Much too slowly, slathering it, playing with it. Putting on a show.

“Fucking c’mon,” Ox hears himself say, but part of him craves the exact opposite. Virgil must sense it, because he is smiling, raising his chin, watching Ox watching him. Ox swears his hand slows. There is the pre-come, obscenely bright against his skin, and the sound of it, wet against his palm. Ox’s knees are weak. He’s leaning heavily against the wall, his cock at attention.

“All right,” Virgil says, and he gets close again, fingertips brushing against Ox’s side. It’s overwhelming, his sudden heat. Ox doesn’t have time to adjust. Virgil heaves him up without warning, and his back hits the wall with a thud. He hardly feels it for the adrenaline.

Ox’s hand rests on his shoulder blade as Virgil eases his cock into him. It hurts only a little – the friction is so, so right. He’s strong as hell. Most men couldn’t lift Ox like this, like he was lighter than air. But he remembers that he’s heavy because of how tightly Virgil’s thumbs press into his thighs, how they burn deliciously.

“Move, move,” Ox begs, hardly aware that he says it.

Virgil’s face is the picture of concentration. He repositions, the sweat beaming on his brow. “Now?"

“Yes. God." He's right there, hitting the spot. It's a new feeling. “Yes!” He feels white-hot, electric. Virgil keeps stroking, unrelenting.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” whispers Virgil. Ox opens his eyes. He never sees him like this, totally unraveled. Mouth open, red. It makes Ox wish he was a little bit heavier. See what he’d do. He knows he’ll have bruises on his thighs, on his back, but he couldn’t care if he tried. The feeling of letting go and giving in is too overwhelming. The heat pools in his stomach. His eyelids are fluttering.

“Look at me,” Virgil grunts. Ox meets his eyes. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers.

“Look at me,” says Virgil again. Now it sounds more like a plea. His strokes are slower, more erratic. Ox edges his palm closer to Virgil’s neck, just resting it there, thumb pressed in the middle of his clavicle. Like he’s doing it by accident. Like he doesn’t notice how desperate it makes him. “Grab your dick,” says Virgil. “Don’t come yet.”

Ox obeys, holding his gaze. He licks his lips, and Virgil blinks first, the want written all over his face. “Don’t come yet.” He’s holding it near the base, tight, like a cock ring.

“Virg,” he groans. “Let me come.”

He shakes his head, his grip on Ox still iron. “Don’t come yet.”

“Let me come, let me come...”

“Don’t come,” says Virgil. “I come first.”

That’s enough to send Ox over the edge. He comes without warning, hard and long and as he does, he can feel Virgil’s come fill his hole. The heat engulfs his whole body, the unholy pleasure making him feel miles away.

He’s aware, a few moments later, of he and Virgil sinking to the floor. The wall is suddenly cold against his back. Finally, Virgil lets him go, having already pulled out. They’re panting. Virgil swallows and puts his forehead against Ox’s. “Sorry.”

Ox gasp-laughs. “For what?”

“I, uh… Was it too much?”

Ox puts a hand against his massive jaw, and stifles a giggle. “No. Not at all.” He gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “You’re spectacular, you are.” He’s still out of breath. If he wasn’t a professional athlete, it’d embarrass him.

Virgil closes his eyes and smiles, appeased.

“Liked that thing you did, too.”

“What, ‘don’t come’? It’s good, right?”

Ox nods. “You done it before?”

“Nope.” Virgil shakes his head so emphatically that Ox chuckles. “I haven’t!”

“Swear?”

“I swear.”

“Well, I liked it.”

“I could tell,” says Virgil, thrilled.

“All right,” Ox says, just to shut him up, and kisses him. “Can we go to bed?”

“Yeah, yeah."

 

 

Ox is curled up in fetal position when Virgil returns from the bathroom, jumps happily into bed, and arranges himself as big spoon. “Fuck’s sake,” Ox groans, but he loves it, the way Virgil moves him so effortlessly, aligns his crotch with his bum. His grip is tight, but it gives.

“You gonna be able to walk tomorrow?” Virgil says with a laugh in his voice.

“Yes,” says Ox, a little too defensively. Truth is, Virgil’s warmth feels nice against his aching muscles. “Professional athlete.”

“Okay,” says Virgil. His heart hammers against Ox’s back.

“I feel bad we didn’t see each other more in Marbella.”

Ox’s eyes are closed. It’s earlyish, but he’s knackered. “Hmm?”

“Wanted to see more of you in Marbella.” He sounds almost out of breath. “Missed you.”

“Hmm. Missed you too.”

“I don’t… know what to do about it,” he murmurs.

Ox opens his eyes in the darkness. “Right.”

“It’s just hard when we’re surrounded by teammates, you know. And all I want to do is kiss you, or… or talk to you, or give you a cuddle. And I can’t. Or, I can, but then we have to stop…”

“Yeah, it is hard. It was hard for me too.”

“And I see you, and then we have sex. And it’s great. I mean, obviously. It’s great.” Ox chuckles. “But it’s not just that. I think about you all the time. I guess I just wanted to know.”

“Wanted to know?”

“If it was hard for you too. If – if you think about me.”

“Aw, Virg. Of course I do.” He’s quiet. Ox knows it’s not enough. “I told you in Marbella that I missed you. Even though you were right in front of me. It’s shit that we’re around – you know, our friends, these guys we love—”

“Watch it.”

“You know what I mean, these great guys that we love being around, and they can’t know.”

“Yeah,” says Virgil, and it sounds like he’s smiling.

“But I’m not using you for sex, Virg,” he says, grinning too. Virgil’s arm, heavy atop him, readjusts. “It’s more than that. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” His pulse is back to its usual slow throb. “That’s okay. I can work with that.”


	9. Overwintered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool go to Old Trafford three points clear at the top of the league.

He still is having trouble getting a text back.

He’s happy-go-lucky, Ox, and certainly self-confident, but he’s used to a few more texts than this. Spending half the day on your phone is more fun when there’s always someone on the other end to chat to. His mind flashes unwillingly to the girls he met at clubs, the friends of friends, the odd lucky fan back in the day, who blew up his phone with emoji-strewn texts and exclamation points as soon as they could.

He’s got too much time on his hands anyway. Has done since last April.

The days are long between Tuesday and Sunday, interminable. If things were normal, he’d be grateful for the recovery time. When you’re in the middle of a season, you’d give anything for one more day of it. Instead, it’s all he knows. It hurts so much that sometimes he wants to laugh.

Watching from afar is strange. They’ve had a blip or two, but they still have maybe the best defense in Europe. And it’s Virgil’s. He’s never been more jealous of people in training. He aches to play their stupid games and even do their stupid punishments for coming in last. He’s too social to be stuck inside with just the injured lads for company.

 

 

Liverpool go to Old Trafford three points clear at the top of the league. They leave just one. It’s a catastrophe of a performance. Old Trafford is as menacing as ever, and their away form has been shit. For Virgil, it brings back memories of the Serbian stadium where they lost two-nil in the cold. The deliberately long tunnel, built to intimidate, no one would let him walk fast enough. He’s not used to being scared.

But here, they are just a few miles from home. It’s the strangest game in the world. In truth, they almost lose it. Bobby does his ankle fifteen minutes in, and Klopp puts on Studge. United use all their subs in the first half, but it has no effect whatsoever. Joel surges forward and wins them a free kick that is inches from a penalty. Later, he’ll put the ball into his own net from a Smalling cross that is, thankfully, offside. Alisson makes maybe his save of the season. With Karius or Mignolet, Virgil knows, they’d have lost that one. The thought doesn’t make him feel any better.

 

 

2pm kickoffs are awkward. He sent a text at halftime, hoping Virgil would check his phone. He can’t remember if it’s his habit, but either way, his phone doesn’t light up. It’s 4pm and he’s done his physical therapy already, he’s lifting weights idly on the couch as Solskjaer and Klopp give their post-match interviews. Virgil and the others will shower and eat and be in for the night, he knows, but for him it’s still obscenely early.

The text read:  _Come over?_

Virgil’s never worse than when they lose. But they haven’t lost today, and Ox saw his smile afterwards, his rubbing shoulders with Lukaku. He’ll know better than anybody that they probably got away with one.

 

 

They don’t have free mornings or even free afternoons so Virgil says yes. The last time he was here they fucked against that wall, he can see it from here. Virgil can’t stop himself from looking over, like he expects to see them there again.

Ox doesn’t notice. He crosses his hands in front of his body, phone clasped in one fist.

“You work out today?” Virgil says, for lack of anything better to say.

“Yeah.” Ox nods. “Just PT.” He mocks pumping iron, brainlessly, to see if Virgil will smile. It works for a split second.

“Feel okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

Virgil shrugs. He won’t complain (yet), but he’s got the worst body language, magnified triply thanks to his massive frame. It feels too early to go to bed. Ox sticks his hand out, feeling his face flush. To his surprise, Virgil takes it without hesitation. Ox breaks into an enormous grin and he leads Virgil to the bedroom.

 

 

Virgil drops onto the massive bed and promptly snuggles under the blankets with a murmured “thanks.” Ox looks on, amused. “Needed that, huh?” His eyes keep closing for a second too long.

“Yeah,” he laughs, the self-awareness never far. Ox sits beside him, leaning against the headboard. Virgil puts a heavy hand on his thigh reassuringly, rubs it briefly with his thumb.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Had enough.”

“Bet you want to sleep till Wednesday.”

Virgil grunts.

“I know I do,” he muses. “Wish I could hibernate till _this_ was good again.” He slams his palm into his IT band. Sometimes it makes it feel better for a second or two.

“Ox,” Virgil says, his eyes long since closed and his mouth half in the pillow, “I love you. But let’s talk tomorrow, yeah.”

A jolt goes through his entire body. He’s sure Virgil will have felt it, hand on his thigh and all. “Yeah. Sure,” he says automatically, brain far away. Mouth dry.

“Thanks,” Virgil mutters. Ox puts his hand on top of Virgil’s and goes back to his phone, a buoyance alive in his chest.


	10. Braced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil scores twice against Watford as Liverpool win 5-0 at home and remain top of the league.

_Watford is going to be fun_ , Virgil texts him, while he’s sat up in front of the TV icing his knee, savoring his risotto. An uncomfortable Joe Gomez is on the other side of the couch. Ox can tell he’s sick of him already, but they have to watch the match anyway, might as well be together.

He likes that Virgil texts him from the dressing room. He can’t quite explain why.

“What you laughing at?” asks Gomez.

“Nothing,” says Ox, clearing his throat. He’s answered much too quickly; Gomez stares. “No, just, uh, Big Virg backs himself against Deeney, that’s all.”

Gomez snickers. “He reads the papers, you know. Does Virg.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, Deeney’s half got a crush on him.”

“Too right.” He’s seen that, of course. They had a good laugh about it at the time. “Hard to blame him, though,” Ox says impulsively, eyes trained on Gomez.

To his annoyance, Gomez just grunts. The commercial ends, and the commentators’ voices fill the room. Ox turns it up still louder. The Anfield faithful give him goosebumps, even from here. He can already imagine stepping out onto that grass again, how it’ll feel beneath his studs, the sound of the crowd screaming after he’s scored a goal, screaming his name. Oh, he can hit one.

So can Sadio. Trent gives him two assists in the first twenty minutes. It’s never in doubt. Divock bags a solo goal after half time. They’re cruising, they’re the team they all know they can be. It’s as bittersweet as always. The heavy feeling in his chest – he’s missed all of it, everything – weighs most on nights like this. It’s something he’d never say aloud. He keeps stealing glances at Gomez, searching for any kind of reaction, but the kid’s in a different situation, isn’t he.

At 3-0 up, Ox figures it’s safe to grab a drink from the kitchen. He’s gone for all of ten seconds and they win a corner.

“Corner, mate!” Gomez shouts from the next room.

“Oi oi!” But he doesn’t move any faster.

“Trent’s taking it! Oh – they scored!” The fans are almost louder than Gomez. “Big Virg scored it!”

Ox fumbles his drink and sprints back to the living room for the replay. No one is anywhere near him, not on the ground or in the air. He gets up anyway, just to show off. Slams the ball into the corner of the net. Ox watches Gini climb him, watches him celebrate with the crowd. Watches their teammates surround him. He is so loved. They line up to congratulate him. Watches him push Robbo off by the face with a smile, and call Trent’s name to thank him personally for the assist (“I love it, man.” Probably not “I love _you_ , man”). Ox unclenches his jaw. Puts on a wide smile and intentionally meets Gomez’s eyes.

Three minutes later, Virgil scores again. Same exact situation, only this is a better cross cause it’s twenty yards further back and from open play. Robbo’s. He’s somehow still the first over to celebrate, jumping on Virgil before the rest of them can get there. He’s even happier with this one, two fingers in the air. How many defenders make a habit of scoring braces? He doesn’t know another. Dalglish is on his feet. Ox is smiling, for real this time because he knows Virgil wants a third.

 _Unlucky about the hat trick mate ;P_ , he texts Virgil, as they stream off the pitch.

“Big Virg,” Gomez mutters with a grin, almost to himself.

“All that could be yours,” says Ox, half-delirious, overstimulated. It doesn’t come out the way he means it to. But Gomez lets it slide.

The text comes in moments after Virgil’s walked off the screen. _Want to congratulate me?_

 

 

It’s quicker than he’s ever gotten over there. Ox answers the door just as hurriedly, thinking it has to be someone else. Gomez is only five minutes gone.

“Whoa,” he says when he opens the door. He’s unshowered, hair frizzier than usual in his bun. Grin ear to ear, oversized bag over his shoulder. “Got here fast.” All other thoughts have fallen out of his head. Virgil’s gaze is pleased, confident, only slightly desperate. “You didn’t even shower."

“Yeah, is that all right?” Virgil says, with that massive, teasing grin. Ox stutters. “If I use your shower?” he adds, belatedly.

“Yeah, mate, ’course,” Ox laughs. _I’ve have licked you head to toe either way_. He holds the door open pointedly, watches Virgil stride in and put his stuff down. Before he can get too far, Ox grabs him by the waistband. Virgil smiles and lets himself be kissed, soft and gentle at first. Then, Ox’s thumbs dig into his hip bones, nails graze the tender skin, and he moans, giving himself away.

“So good today,” Ox murmurs, pressing kisses onto his jawbone, tasting the salt there. “God, I want you.” He drags the waistband down and Virgil holds him fast.

“Let’s go,” he says in his deep voice, finally the serious tone he loves.

In the bathroom, Ox is out of his clothes in seconds. Virgil takes a little longer getting his layers off. Ox gets great pleasure from tugging down his track pants, from seeing him hard already in his briefs. Suddenly hurried, Virgil gets them off and takes a step toward the massive shower.

“Wait,” says Ox.

“Hmm?” Virgil turns around.

“Before you do that.”

Virgil has a knowing look on his face. But he watches anyway as Ox drops to his knees and takes his cock in his hand, licking it slowly from base to tip. Then he sucks him expertly down. “Y-” Virgil stutters, gripping Ox’s shoulder as his knees weaken, as he gives in to the soft heat.

But then he pushes Ox’s shoulder, hard so that he pulls off, licking his lips, a gleam in his eye. A strand of saliva lingers in the air for just a second. He stands up and kisses him on the corner of his lips, on the cheek, towards his neck, hands warm against his hips. “You like that?” Virgil manages.

Ox chuckles between kisses. “Yeah. I’d suck you dry if you let me."

Virgil’s head is swimming. He clears his throat, his gaze dropped. Ox never sees him hesitant. “Let me wash properly, yeah?”

“You’d feel better?”

“I’d feel better.”

“Yes, sir,” says Ox. “Hot water to the left. Cold to the right.”

Virgil kisses him, that rare shy look in his eye, and then clambers into the shower. Ox sits on the counter on his phone, sneaking glimpses of Virgil every now and then through the blurred glass door, as if that were enough. Still, he’s half-hard as he scrolls through Instagram, liking indiscriminately.

He realizes the door is opening, the steam overwhelming. Virgil is standing there, grinning. He looks like fucking Adonis. He moves his head, just one _come here_ motion, and Ox is across the room in a second.

“Here, get wet,” says Virgil, guiding Ox almost dangerously under the faucet.

“Fuck’s sake,” Ox grumbles.

“Got you.” Virgil’s hands are firm on Ox’s biceps. “Hot enough?”

“Yes.” He chuckles and leans forward into Virgil’s touch, taking his dick in his hand and slowly massaging it hard. Virgil’s palms are pressed against his neck, rough, impatient. Thumb pressed against his jaw as he kisses him.

“Virg,” he murmurs. “I want to fuck you.” Virgil pulls back, looking at him questioningly. His pulse pounds in his ears. “Congratulate you with this _dick_ ,” he tries lamely, in his best Kendrick. Virgil laughs, letting him. Ox realizes it’s probably something he’s fantasized about too. This big man fantasizing about taking Ox’s dick.

“Try it,” he says, and then: “Need lube."

“Yeah, ’course,” Ox says, glancing around the cavernous shower. He spots it on a soap tray.

Virgil cracks up. “What?! _That’s_ where you keep it?”

He shrugs. “One of them.”

Virgil mock gasps and clutches his pearls. “You’re a slut.”

“Yes. Turn around,” Ox says, slapping his ass.

Virgil shakes his head, but he does. He turns around and braces himself against the divots in the wall. Ox holds his hip lightly, runs his hard cock along his ass crack. Grinds his dick into Virgil’s ass so he moans and pushes back against him.

“Fuck, I want you,” he says again, barely audible over the shower. Virgil leans forward to give him better access. Panting already, Ox puts a finger into Virgil’s tight, clean hole, and the big man cries out.

“Need lube.”

“Yeah,” Ox says thickly. He slathers it over his fingers and onto Virgil’s hole. He tries again, one finger inside. Virgil flinches. Ox doesn’t have Virgil’s massive hands, but his fingers are big enough, and thick. He’s stopped making noise. “How’s that? Tell me.”

“It’s – I dunno. Try another.”

“If you say so.” He puts another heavily lubed finger into Virgil’s asshole.

“N—Nah. No. Sorry. Ox.” He gently takes his fingers out, and Virgil turns around. His cock is limp between his legs. He kisses Ox, one hand soft against his cheek. “Not today. Congratulate me properly.” He takes Ox by the hand and leads him out of the shower, out of the bathroom. He quickly puts his hair up and lays a towel down on the bed, and lies half on top of it. He gestures to his dick. “Get me hard again.”

Ox smirks and shakes his head. “Nope, we’re doing this one way. Lie down.”

Virgil gives him an incredulous look.

“Hey. If you want your _dick sucked_ , lie the fuck down.” Virgil does, ridiculously slowly. “Flat on your back. Yes. Good.” He’s climbing onto the bed, a wolfish grin on his face. “Now, hands above your head.” Virgil obeys, crossing his hands at the wrists. “Nice touch. Now, don’t move them. Stay just… like… that.” He eases down towards Virgil’s cock as the curious eyes follow him.

Ox wraps his mouth around the tip of Virgil’s cock, and his hand around the base. Virgil makes a helpless sound, low in his throat, that spurs him on. He closes his eyes and takes his cock in his mouth, lips and tongue sliding over the tip and making Virgil whimper. His hand is much rougher against the shaft, while the other keeps Virgil’s strong hips pressed against the bed.

He swears in Dutch. “Fuck. Just like that.” Ox takes him deeper, savoring the pressure in his throat. “So fucking good.” He can tell Virgil wants to touch him, to slide his fingers through his curls and keep him there like he always does. He pulls off just to frustrate him, and looks him up and down as he keeps jacking him. “Ox.”

“Shh,” he replies, putting his finger to his lips. Shakes his head. The pre-come is so wet, so loud in his hand. He takes his hand off and licks it, watches Virgil watching him. Virgil whines, desperate to move his hips against Ox’s touch.

“Please,” he whispers, so soft that Ox almost thinks he imagined it. It goes straight to his dick, and with an appreciative noise, he goes back to sucking his cock, back to worshipping the tip with his tongue. He’s opening his throat again, inching deeper and deeper. And then he hears it. “Touch yourself.”

He can’t believe that Virgil said it. But he’s too far gone, his poor, neglected cock so, so hard that he doesn’t think twice. He is quick, brusque with his dick, hard, even, desperate to keep a rhythm with Virgil’s cock deep in the back of his throat. He’s so easy, this is so easy –

“Fuck. You’re about to come, aren’t you. Just from deep throating my cock,” Virgil groans. “Make me come. I scored two today. Make me come, Ox.” Ox whimpers, he’s so hard, he’s wound so tight –

“Come on, be a good slut. Take this dick.” He loses control and comes. Without warning, Virgil comes too, deep in Ox’s throat, he can’t do anything but take it, one, two, three, trying to swallow in time, gasping for air. He’s sputtering, wiping his mouth, blinking hard, climbing over Virgil to lie almost on top of him, giggling as soon as he can breathe again. Virgil’s smiling too, looking at him with what might be admiration.

He's none too careful, letting their legs entangle. “You cheated.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Virgil, laughing incredulously, putting his arms above his head again. “I kept them there!"

“I meant _this_ ,” he says, putting an index finger against Virgil’s lips. “You were supposed to be quiet. For once."

Virgil kisses his finger off. “Oh, please,” he groans. “You love it when I talk. _You_ … can’t get enough.”

Ox rolls his eyes and kisses him on the lips, just hard enough. “Congratulations, okay? Score another.”


	11. Regarding Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool draw 0-0 with Everton and lose their spot at the top of the table. Ox is back in first team training and getting game time with the reserves. Robbo wants more from Virgil.

They played on the Wednesday and they’ll play on the Sunday. There’s an under-23s game that Ox might feature in on the Monday. No more than 60 minutes, said the boss, but it feels like the whole world. His palms itch for desire. It’s all he can think about. Well, almost.

On the Friday, they go out. Robbo says his birthday is coming up. Virgil is happy to go with him, which means Gini’ll be there, and Gomez, and Trent, and Adam and Hendo, and… nearly all of them.

The British lads drink. “Weeeeeeeee,” sings Adam. Hendo shakes his head at his silly southern song, but he knows the words.

“Like to drink with Andy! Cause Andy is our mate! And when we drink with Andy, he gets it down in eight, seven, six, five…”

Virgil, across the table, is merry, but his shoulders are high. Hand wrapped around a mug of beer, keeping up a conversation with Gini on his right that looks private enough to make Ox feel a pang of envy. Every now and then he catches Ox’s eye, the innocent joy radiant in his gaze, in his smile, and Ox feels petty and small because he wants Virgil all to himself. At one point, Virgil mock frowns at him, like _Lighten up_ , _stupid_ , and Ox blushes and grins despite himself.

It’s early still, but it’s been dark for hours. He’s wistfully gazing out the window at nothing, zoning out, feeling only the cold glass of the beer in his palm. He’s quieter than usual, but that’s been the case since he got injured. How weird is it to be on six figures a week and not contributing at all in the workplace. And desperately wanting to. No other job like it. He feels the banter come back, like magic, when he’s able to train with the lads. Maybe he chats shit only when he can back it up.

The thought makes him smile, and he glances back over the table, only to find Virgil’s eyes on him, searching. He gives him a brief grin like _don’t worry_ , and takes a gulp of the IPA that he hates.

He’s not really supposed to be drinking with the injury. Certainly not supposed to be getting blasted. Yet he’s trying to focus his vision at a club he can’t name when he comes to, with an arm around Trent and leaning heavily on the bar. Trent is yelling something at Gini, who looks about as drunk as he feels. He lets the other two go and turns around so his back rests on the bar. To his surprise, Virgil is on his other side, surveying the club like a benevolent king of the jungle.

His eyebrows raise when he sees Ox, who does a ridiculous double take. “You all right, man?”

“How long have you been there?”

Virgil’s features knit into an unfathomable expression. “Since we last talked. Two minutes ago.”

“Oh!” Ox laughs. “Yeah, I remember that.”

“You do?” Virgil says, amused. His bicep, much higher than Ox’s, presses pleasantly against his shoulder.

“Yeah!” Ox replies. “What did you say?”

Virgil laughs, his shoulders shaking, his gaze dropping, his big frame falling forward, helpless just for a moment. It makes Ox want to hold him. But, drunk as he is, he still has certain instincts, and they keep his arms tensed, tighter than ever at his sides. Virgil looks back at him and there is a hint of unmistakable lust in his eyes.

Robbo slopes up then, arm in arm with Gomez, leaning heavily on the taller man. “You all right?” says Virgil again.

“Birthday boy,” Gomez says, clearly happy to see the pair of them.

“Oi, come here, Joey,” Ox says. Relieved, Gomez passes Robbo on to Virgil and joins him at the bar. He orders a beer and looks over at Gomez. “You had a drink, mate?”

Gomez laughs. “Yeah, mate, had a few. I’m all right though.”

“You’re all right?”

“I am. All right.”

Ox studies him, then raises his eyebrows in defeat, and accepts his beer from the barmaid. “Right. How’s Robbo, then? You got stuck with that?”

“Nah, it’s okay. Birthday.”

“What’s that?” He’s too quiet over the pounding beats of the club.

“It’s his _birthday_ and that,” Gomez shouts.

“Right. Remind me how old you are again, Joe?”

“Twenty-two in May.”

“May? Oh, that’s not too far. We could have one of these, you know. Night out with the lads? I could arrange it, mate. Better than this shithole and all. You ever been out in London?”

“Yeah!” says Gomez, a little too enthusiastic.

“Pfft. ‘Yeah.’ Listen. No, listen.” Ox is good at chatting, even when he’s piss-drunk. “How old were you when you came to Anfield?”

“Anfield?”

“Whatever. Liverpool. How old?”

“Er… eighteen. Just turned eighteen.”

“Right, so you’ve had, what, one, maybe two nights out in London?”

“I’ve had a few…”

“No. Nights _out_. Clubs. Nah’m saying.”

“I—”

“We’ll take you out, mate. Proper lads’ night. Proper geezer night, all right. In London. Lahhn-dahn.” He roughhouses with him, ineptly. Joe pushes him off, laughing. When he quickly tires, they turn back to face the club again.

“D’you miss it?” asks Gomez.

“What, London?” Ox says dismissively. “Hah. Only when I’m at places like this.”

“Oi oi,” says Gomez, so softly Ox only turns his head on instinct. To their right, an obvious soap opera is going on between Virgil and Robbo. With a typical lack of subtlety, they tune in.

Robbo has him against the bar, much too close, thighs wedged between his. Chests inches apart. His stance is aggressive, almost taunting, his hands high on Virgil’s chest and threatening towards his face. Virgil, leaned against the bar, has the resigned air of a woman that knows she’ll be hit on but is too exhausted or too polite to stop it.

“Oi, Robbo.” Ox hits him on the arm before he can think better of it. Gomez, eyes huge, looks on silently.

“What, mate?” He can hardly focus on Ox’s face, but his hand is raised as if to hit back. His other hand, Ox realizes, is pressed against the inside of Virgil’s thigh. The big man’s gaze is on the ceiling, but his arms are awkwardly raised, perhaps to keep Robbo from coming any closer.

“Big Virg. Big Dick Virg,” Robbo is saying. “Let me see that big nob again.” He reaches toward it and Virgil grabs his arm, hard. Robbo laughs like it’s a joke, like he’s won something. “Come on, mate. I’ll let you play with mine.” Virgil throws him off with a surprising, frightening strength, and then he’s arse up, six feet away. He gets up gingerly, smile still intact. Ox looks over at Gomez like _you better take care of that_. Virgil has already turned around and ducked his head because he’s hypervisible at the best of times.

Ox joins him. Despite all the alcohol, his stomach dropped when he saw the pair of them and he’s still on edge from it. He watches the muscle flex in Virgil’s jaw. The big man is pointedly looking straight ahead.

“What was that?” he says, after what feels like an eternity. “What _was_ that? Virg? Why did he say ‘again’?”

“He didn’t.”

“Yes, he did! He said ‘again’!” Ox shouts. Good thing the music is loud. “Why did he say ‘again’?”

“He didn’t, all right?” Virgil can’t meet his eyes. “Got to go.” He's got his coat on and is gone before Ox can speak. At first, he moves with him, but then he stops himself hard in his tracks, hit with a wave of paranoia. He blinks and looks around. No one has even noticed them.

Except for Gomez, who, poor lad, has Robbo back under his arm. “Take him home,” Ox mimes, pointing to the exit. His head aches behind his eyes. He feels soberer than he ever has. Mouth dry, he calls the bartender over to settle his tab.

 

 

 

He can hear the wind on the way down to Goodison. It howls and moans and wreaks havoc on the pitch. Klopp will blame the wind if they don’t get a result, some will joke, but they’re always the ones who’ve never played football. The state of the pitch, the wind, the rain – they impact the game as much as the players on it. The worse the conditions, the more things like talent and technique and skill on the ball and clever passing are nullified. Every pro knows it.

Afterwards, he clears off without a word to the others, mutes Virgil’s texts and the group chat. Clears off home and runs a hot shower, and then towels his hair off and watches the post match interviews online, his muscles wonderfully relaxed like they haven’t been all day.

Standing alongside Hendo, Virgil is as angry as Ox has ever seen him. “It says a lot that they’re celebrating a nil-nil.” The derision is spectacular, but he can see the pain underneath: the lead that they’ve built since December is gone. They are no longer top of the table. It is no longer in their hands.

He gets a late text from the boss that warns him he won’t be in the reserve squad tomorrow. He doesn’t want to risk it. The young lads won’t care who he is, they’ll stick a foot in because it’s a derby. Ox fumes, realizes there’s no one to fume to, and eventually passes out on the couch playing FIFA. He dreams of Virgil trekking to Derby to see him play for the first time in almost a year.

When he wakes up, a hand still on the controller, it’s nearly two in the morning. He pads off to his cold, massive bed, mindlessly looking through his phone. His stomach churns when he realizes he’s started reading Virgil’s texts.

_I’m sorry you had to see that. Robbo is such a dickhead_

_Can I come over so we can talk?_

_If you’re mad at me, I understand. I don’t think I can explain it over text_

_Give me a call or something when you’re ready. Good luck on the pitch tomorrow._

Without his consent, images flash across his brain: scoring a late winner against whoever U23s, doing a victory lap to righteous applause, catching a glimpse of Virgil’s big head among the crowds leaned against the fences, his smile wide as ever.

 

 

 

He’s back in training, with the reserves and the first team, bits and pieces. He feels good, and that is sometimes enough.

The days are longer when his texts are muted. But the thought of speaking to Virgil makes him ache: he was never his at all, of course. And yet the apologetic texts. The complete understanding that Ox might be upset. Is it just pure ego? Does Virgil think anyone would hate to share him?

He leaves training early to do some physical therapy, alone, like he’s meant to. Afterward, he’s keeping his head down, looking to make a quick getaway when he feels a firm tug on the inside of his elbow. He glances up at a nervous-looking Virgil. “Can we talk?” he says lowly. It sounds like a plea.

Ox drops his gaze and puts on a smirk. “Yeah,” he says finally, meeting his gaze with a fiery aggression. “Not here. Come over tonight.” Then he ducks out without looking back.

 

 

 

“I’d have loved to have it out with you there,” says Ox. Virgil is sitting on his oversized couch with his long legs crossed under him, hands anxious in his lap. Ox is on the loveseat. “Sooner the better, right? But someone would’ve said something, so.”

“They always do,” Virgil says ruefully, soft-spoken as usual.

“Yeah,” Ox agrees. And then he’s quiet, waits for Virgil to speak. Lets the silence stretch, almost to see what will happen. There’s no playbook for this.

Virgil exhales loudly, runs a hand over his waves. “So. I guess you want to hear what happened.” And then, immediately realizing his mistake: “Or do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” says Ox. “Tell me.”

“It was once,” Virgil begins. “Just once. In Marbella.”

 _Of course_ , Ox thinks. _When you were missing me._

“We roomed together, remember? Yeah, you do,” Virgil says. He sounds breathless already. “Well, I was, uh… watching porn one of the nights.”

 _Could’ve texted me,_ he wants to say. He tsks instead.

“Then he walked in. I tried to turn it off in time, but – he caught me.”

“And then?” Ox’s tone is sharp.

“He left it on,” Virgil says weakly. “Took his cock out.”

Ox stares. Robbo’s around naked Virgil all the time. They all are. And they look. “So what? You just jerked off together? Is that all you did?” They’ve all done something like that, often more than once. Usually when they were younger, but plenty of them never stop. It’s not something they give much thought to.

Virgil hesitates. “No,” he says, and it sounds like it causes him physical pain.

“What?” Ox says.

“He grabbed my cock,” says Virgil. “And he told me to come.”

“And you did?”

Virgil shrugs. It’s enough of an answer.

“Oh.” Ox leans back. He’s gripping the arm of the loveseat, the fabric beneath his fingertips keeping him on earth. “Did you touch him?”

He wilts slightly, one arm holding the opposite bicep hard, twisting. And nods. “Yeah, I, uh – afterwards, I did the same to him. Only fair.” He tries to smile.

“Hmmm.”

“I put him off it though,” Virgil says. “He only tried something the other day cause he was… you know, wasted.”

Ox doesn’t ask.

“That’s it. Honestly. And I’ve told the boss I don’t want to room with him again. Told him he was driving me crazy. Which, you know. He believed it.”

Ox snickers. He’s got a hand over his mouth, looking Virgil over without any shyness. “Why’d you do that?”

Virgil shrugs. “I don’t know, I. I didn’t want it to happen again.”

“Not cause of me?” His heart leaps as he says it, but he needs to.

Virgil smiles, his long lashes fluttering. “I dunno. Maybe.” He’s still contorting his body. Never been afraid like this, he's a stranger to both of them. “Didn’t want to risk anything. You know. With you.” The deep ache in Ox’s chest has evaporated into a buoyant feeling, the one he got when Virgil told him he loved him, half-asleep though he was. Now, it’s all he can do to keep from touching him.

“Is he the only one?”

“Hmm?”

“To touch you. Is he the only one since…?”

Virgil cocks his head to the side. “Yeah,” he half-laughs.

Ox breaks. He leans forward and takes Virgil’s jaw in his hand, strokes his cheek with his thumb and kisses him hungrily. They kiss once, twice, three times, stubble brushing, taking each other in, laughing a little, leaving their foreheads pressed together. “I’m sorry,” says Virgil.

“Forget it,” Ox whispers, and kisses him again.

“If I knew it mattered – that _I_ mattered to you, like that…”

“Forget it,” he says more forcefully. “I’m not _just_ here for your body.”

Virgil grins, the swagger restored. He pulls Ox forward, but he’s still partly on the loveseat and he stumbles. He gathers himself and straddles Virgil on the couch, the heat overwhelming, his nerves alight from the wondrous pressure and his presence. “Say it.”

“Hmm?”

“I want to hear you say it. Say you want me for yourself.”

Ox is completely thrown. Luckily, his mouth works before his brain does. “I want you for myself. Virg. I – I don’t want anyone else touching you. Or kissing you. Or… being on you,” he laughs. “All right?”

Virgil takes his palm and kisses it gently. “Yeah, all right,” he says in that gruff voice, as if Ox had initiated this. “Think I can manage that.”


	12. Hurdles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reds make it difficult for themselves at Burnley. Ox finally gets on the pitch for the U23s, but hurts himself.

It’s the fear. He laughs about it: he has to, because it’s all he thinks about. The dread that courses through his veins should be unlike him, but then, he’s never had an injury like this, not even in his nightmares.

With the U23s, there is no one to impress: just do what you do. Get the legs moving, keep the ball. Put in a clever pass when you can. Nothing stupid.

But game speed makes him winded; you can’t recreate it in training or anywhere else. He feels his opposite hamstring after twenty minutes, and after forty he can no longer hide it. He is subbed off, fingertips glued to the offending thigh. There are cameras here, only a few of them, but they keep his posture stiff, his eyes low, and his lips pursed.

“It’s not your knee, though,” says the manager, half asking like he always does with the first team. “It was just… compensating.”

“Yeah. ’S why it was on the opposite side.” His voice is low as he rips his cleats off. It’s embarrassing that the manager is stuck over here when he should be doing the team talk. Makes it look like Ox has asked him to come over and soothe him.

“All right,” says Critchley, not bothering to hide the doubt in his voice. “Good first half, mate? See the physio.”

“Yeah, I will.” He tries a cool-kid handshake. Ox grins and bears it.

“Now, yeah? Get some ice on it, get it done properly before you're home on the sofa.”

Ox winces at the implication. “Yes, boss.”

 

 

 

“Good first half, mate.” It’s just a throwaway line from a wannabe, but nevertheless, it rings in his ears. He’s become desperate for praise. Not from the physio, who panders, but from someone with half a footballing brain. Good pass, Ox. Nice find, Ox. Even someone to “wow” his piledriver shot. He can hit one, for fuck’s sake. He’s iced till his leg went numb, and then iced some more. He’s rolled out his muscles, keeping himself awake with _Gogglebox_ reruns, and messed around on dating apps with people who think he’s a catfish. “Home on the sofa.” Does Critchley think he gets home and suddenly he’s not a footballer anymore, that he lounges around and eats shit and does nothing? But then he reminds himself that Critchley probably doesn’t give him a second thought.

Speaking of not giving him a second thought. His last text from Virgil was yesterday. Sure, he’s had training, but—

His phone lights up as he reaches for it, and the name prompts that warm feeling in his chest.

_Heard you came off early. I’ll be over in 20_

 

 

 

“Did you roll?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ice?”

“Yes.” Ox is smiling up at him from his massive bed, arms behind his head. Virgil stands over him, running through the list on his fingers. Smile on his face, so he can pretend he’s joking.

“Did you get a – massage?”

“…From the physio. Yeah,” he says with that shit-eating grin.

Now Virgil's smug smile is real. “Ohhh. You want another?”

He shrugs. Virgil laughs. “Well, I… wouldn’t say no.”

“Wouldn’t say no, huh?” But Virgil is already lowering himself onto the bed, taking his left thigh into his lap, his powerful hands gentle against sore muscles that relax into his touch.

He starts kneading and Ox’s eyelids droop. “Feels good.”

Virgil smirks and brings Ox’s leg closer. “It’s tight, man.”

“I know.”

“It’s not the bad knee, right? No,” he says, realizing, “that’s the other one.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good, though, you know? I mean, not good, but. It’s normal. For this leg to work harder. Makes sense.”

Ox grunts.

“How’d you play?”

He shrugs, opening his eyes to Virgil’s expectant gaze. He cares so much about all of his teammates, even the ones he doesn’t like. That pang in Ox’s chest is how lucky he feels. He’s fighting a smile – it makes Virgil’s brow furrow. “Fine, fine.”

“You felt good?”

“Yeah. It’s harder than training.”

He chuckles. “No kidding. Could you do everything? Did – did you feel like yourself?”

“Eh. More or less.”

“Tell me the truth.” He tweaks at a muscle, just hard enough to make Ox squeal.

“I did, I did. Maybe…” He’s thoughtful now. “Maybe have to push myself harder in training, you know? Push him—” he indicates the hamstring— “harder because I need those minutes. Before… before the real matches. It’s all about the fear. Well, you know.”

Virgil nods. “Yeah, I do. You can’t play with fear.”

“I know.”

“You really can’t,” he says, firmer. “Not at this level.”

It means infinitely more coming from him, the colossus of world football at the moment, Ox’s thigh in his hands. His own personal highlight reel of Virgil moments plays in his head, and his eyes glaze over as Virgil works his muscles just right.

Virgil’s fingertips creep up toward the top of his thigh, gripping him in a way that a physio never would. He focuses his vision and Virgil is looking at him, grinning, awaiting his response. He digs in lightly with his nails and Ox bites his lip.

“I can’t fuck,” he warns.

Virgil chuckles. “That’s okay. I – I figured.” His grip loosens, and Ox whines. Virgil smirks and leans down, slowly, keeping eye contact, till he’s resting his heavy head on Ox’s thigh.

“What’re you—”

And then Virgil puts his mouth against Ox’s bulge, and _oh_. That’s what he’s doing. All other thoughts vanish, all he knows is the heat of Virgil’s mouth. Virgil’s fingertips are easing his shorts off, and his briefs. He’s uncharacteristically rushed, just down by Ox’s ankles is enough. Ox is half hard, breathless.

He takes Ox’s cock in his hand and works him hard, slowly, watching. Ox stares back through hooded lids. His chest rises and falls, his arms lax at his sides. He swallows hard, and a flicker of a smile appears at the corners of Virgil’s mouth.

There’s a heat in Ox's chest, a fire he can’t quite explain. “Good lad,” he says. Virgil frowns, cocks his head. “Harder. Spread the pre-come. Yeah, fuck. Like that.” Virgil’s pupils are dilated. He looks hungrier than Ox has ever seen him. “Want to fuck your mouth,” he grunts. “That pretty mouth. Wrap those pretty lips around my cock.”

Virgil’s eyelashes flutter. He repositions himself so he’s lower, head level with Ox’s hips, and he licks it from base to tip, again and again, worshipping, getting it wetter and wetter. He takes the head in his mouth and Ox cries out. He’s making sloppy sounds, Ox’s dick is so wet in his touch. Teasing the head, kissing and licking and sucking until Ox growls and threads his fingers through Virgil’s hair. “So good,” he mewls. “You love it, don’t you? Taking my cock.” Virgil tries to nod through Ox’s tight grip. “Fuck, so good. So fucking good to me.” He groans as Virgil takes him deeper, thumb harsh against his cheekbone.

“Choke on it, baby. Show me how much you like it.” Virgil grips him tighter, so fucking tight like he needs. “God, you’re a slut for my cock.” Virgil hums and the vibration almost makes Ox come right then. He catches his breath and wraps his hand around Virgil’s massive neck.

“Let me fuck your throat,” he moans, pushing deeper into the soft heat. Virgil adjusts, till Ox is just taking. Fucking his throat hard, no holding back. “Love it – when you choke on it,” he groans, his head swimming. This big man in the palm of his hand.

“Fuck. Gonna come,” he says, and pushes Virgil none too gently. He pulls off, panting, desperate for more. Ox smiles and presses his dick against Virgil’s full mouth. “Want to come on your face.” Ox taps his dick against his lips. It hurts not to come right then and there. “Can I come on your face?”

Virgil nods, a grin on the corner of his lips, and closes his eyes. Ox is loud, appreciative, and lets go, just one stroke, two, and then he’s coming. On Virgil’s face, even some in his hair. A few seconds later, he opens his eyes and Virgil is smiling up at him. He looks spent, proud of himself. But – Ox knows – he is so, so, hard. He stares at Virgil’s massive erection as he goes for the tissues on the night table.

“Ask permission,” Ox says, half as a joke. He’s expecting Virgil to shove him, to tease him for it.

Instead, his body gives, like Ox has flipped a switch. His eyes are wide with need. When he speaks, his low voice sounds breathless.

“Can I… wipe your come off my face?”

Fuck. Ox’s spent dick twitches. “Yes,” he nods.

“C’mere,” he grins, tapping the spot beside him, and Virgil obliges. “Spoon me!” he cries, back to his usual silly self. Virgil, one hand on his hip, is hard as a rock against him.

Ox grins. “Huh. I _like_ you quiet,” he breathes as his heart rate slows.

“Shut up.” Virgil tweaks his hip.

“You can come, you know,” Ox mumbles, his eyes closing. “Just not on me.” After a thoughtful pause, Virgil holds him hard for a minute or so, letting his erection press teasingly against his ass. Then he turns onto his back, and Ox can hear the sounds, his groans low in his throat, the sounds of his dick, so wet just from blowing him. After he comes, he cleans up and takes Ox back in his arms. There’s no chance they’ll wake up in the same position, but for now, Virgil’s big, soft arm strewn across him is nice.

 

 

 

Ox watches from home. Afternoons like this are tense, have been since that pair of draws. December was their last joyful month. Christmas always ends, and March lasts forever.

Virgil fumes. Alisson is fouled five minutes in, held down between two players. Big man’d beat the one but not both. He loses his clean sheet and gets a yellow for his troubles. They regroup – Virgil yells till he’s hoarse, and for the most part, it works. He’s made them as big and bad and mean as he wants them to be, and they bully Burnley for much of the match. Their best chances go begging, but luck is on their side, their attack too good to miss twice.

When Mo gets fouled, Bobby is there to parry it in, laser-focused, unforgiving. He bags a brace and Sadio scores a chip, a beauty. Burnley get one back late, but Sadio, in typical Sadio fashion, beats everyone to the ball and draws the keeper out only to slot it past him. He loves a cushion. Virgil feels his pulse drop as the ball hits the net.

He hugs Sadio extra hard after the game. “You calmed me down scoring that, man.” Sadio stutters through his massive smile. He hugs Salah too, tousling his hair. “Played great, Mo. Couldn’t have done it without you.” Mo’s cheeky grin says both _Thank you_ and _I know._ He still hasn’t scored the 50th, but his confidence could end wars.

 _Thank God for Dejan_ , thinks Virgil, not for the first time. And then, accidentally, he pictures Ox, sat up on his couch watching the game, ice on his knee. Or maybe going through some exercises. The thought is too distracting. He smiles at Trent and Henderson, hugs the boss for as long as he will let him. Hits the showers. And they go to the Allianz in just three days.


	13. Lofted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool travel to the Allianz. Virgil sleeps over at Ox's for the first time.

Ox loves their mornings together. The privacy of them, the silences, the wrists grazing torsos and kisses on shoulders. Short, brusque touches as they smile into consciousness, the touches slowly getting firmer, surer, fingertips pressed against ribcages. Sleeping in is his greatest luxury, forgetting the day of the week without an alarm. But when he finally opens his eyes, Virgil is alert, stiff even on his comfortable bed.

“You all right?” Ox squeezes his bicep.

“Mmm.” He could’ve been awake for hours.

“You sleep?”

He grunts in a way that makes Ox’s heart jump. _If our best player doesn’t sleep before a game like this one…_ The thought is more an instinct.

“A little,” he says furtively, and sighs. “I never sleep great before big matches.”

“Well, you still have that night’s sleep in Munich."

“Yeah,” he says, and then meets his eyes, the tenderness there overwhelming. “Don’t worry about it,” he grins. “Always been like this.”

“Rest that big brain, please,” Ox says, pressing his fingers against Virgil’s cranium as if to point out its sheer size. He chuckles and swats him off. “When are you flying?”

He groans. “Four.”

“Mmm, good.”

He looks up at Ox. “Why’s that?”

Ox smirks. “No, you’ve got time, that’s all… Let me relax you?” The easy confidence drips from his voice.

Virgil can’t help but smile. “Yes. Of course."

Ox grins devilishly and climbs on top of him, straddling his chest. They’re both in just their underwear: Virgil boxers, Ox briefs. He leans down and kisses his jawline, his stubble, down to his neck so he groans. His hand is firm against Virgil’s throat, leaving the pressure there. “Fuck,” Virgil breathes, his hand finding the meat of Ox’s bum. He uses his teeth against Virgil’s neck, sucking, biting.

The harder he is, the tighter Virgil grips him. The more he likes it. “Oh, fuck,” Ox cries as Virgil puts a finger against his hole. He’s panting, getting too excited already. He backs up.

“What’s wrong?” Virgil asks.

“This is about you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Don’t worry about me. It’s – I won’t allow it,” he grins cheekily.

“But I want to touch you.”

“Too fucking bad, mate. Next time,” Ox says, taking Virgil’s arms and putting them above his head with great care.

“That’s right, next time,” Virgil mutters, and for a second they are both imagining him fucking Ox against the wall again, just _taking_ without mercy.

Ox is back on earth first, brings his lips back to Virgil’s neck. “He’s our center half,” he sings between kisses. “He’s our number four…” The notes vibrate against his skin, tickling. He chuckles mindlessly, his body reacting till Ox holds him down roughly. “Watch him defend…” He moves downwards, kissing his chest, a nipple, his soft, hard stomach, his other hand squeezing Virgil’s side. “And we watch him score. He’ll pass the ball, calm as you like.” He pauses, rubbing his stubble against Virgil’s stomach, achingly close to his cock. “He’s Virgil van Dijk.” He takes it in his hand, playing with it slowly, teasingly. “He’s Virgil van Dijk.”

“Fuck, Ox.”

He kisses his hip bone, reverent. Still stroking the shaft, the friction just on the side of too light. “Player of the Year,” he murmurs. Virgil makes a sound like an animal. “Team of the Year.” He licks the underside tenderly, as if it’s the first time. “Best defender in the league.” He sucks the head for a few seconds, savoring, and pulls off with a pop. “Best defender in a Liverpool shirt, even.” Virgil makes a noise that sounds like it might be protest, so Ox sucks him down, hand working the shaft hard now.

Virgil has to clench his fists not to put his hand in Ox’s hair – the heat and sensation have gone to his head. He aches to thrust up.

Ox pulls off. “Biggest dick in the league,” he says, wiping his mouth. “So fucking good, this dick.” He’s back to stroking it, watching Virgil unravel, watching him struggle to breathe.

“Such a good fucking dick. Love taking it,” he whispers, soft but audible. Slowly, he leans down and takes Virgil’s balls in his mouth. The effect is immediate.

“Fuck, Ox, _fuck!_ ” he cries. Ox presses his hand against his hip. Now his voice is a plea. “Fuck, Ox… please…”

Ox puts a wet finger into his hole, and then another. Virgil whimpers in pleasure. “Love to see you like this.”

“Yeah?” Virgil manages.

“You look so good. Fucking sexy. Begging.”

“Fuck, Ox, please. Let me…”

“Let you…?”

“Let me, Ox, please, I—" He puts his mouth around his balls again, licking, sucking, slowly. Hand still pumping his cock. “Please, Ox, fuck. Don’t tease.” As if in response, he puts another finger in.

“Please what?”

“Fuck me, please fuck me."

Ox grins. “Are you sure, babe? You might come from just my fingers."

He growls. “I’m sure.” He’s writhing on the mattress, sweat gleaming on his chest. “Please, please, please. I need it.”

“You need my fat cock inside you?”

“I need it.” He’s breathless. “Want you to come inside me.”

Ox doesn’t need to hear that twice. He takes his fingers out and wraps them around Virgil’s cock for good measure as he slowly presses in. It’s a tight fit, but it’s so wet that it’s easier than he expected. “Say it,” Ox orders, absolutely still. “Want to hear you say it.”

“God, fuck me, fuck me,” Virgil whines.

“That's right." He  _finally_ moves, sliding his dick so the friction is right. "Beg for it." He keeps it slow, just for a minute. “Love it – when you beg – for my cock,” he grunts, pumping harder into the tight hole. Virgil looks half undone already, his cock twitching in Ox's hand.

“Fuck me, Ox,” he says. “Fuck me with your big – fat – cock.”

“You close?"

“Yeah."

Ox thrusts harder, searing this image in his mind for life. “Want to – come inside you. Fill you up like the slut you are.”

To Virgil’s surprise, that sends him over the edge, and Ox comes a few seconds later, the tightness too much. Ox gently pulls out and flops down next to him.

“Fuck, that was… so good, Ox.” He puts a heavy arm on Ox’s chest. "No idea."

Ox chuckles. “Feel any better?”

“Yeah,” he groans. “Ready for a few more hours’ sleep.” He kisses Ox on the cheek. “You’re so good to me, man. So good.”

“I love you,” Ox says, like an explanation. Virgil’s eyes flicker open, his mouth stuck in a goofy smile.

“I love you, too. So much.”

“Quit saying that to me when you’re falling asleep,” Ox laughs.

Virgil shoves his arm and groans. “C’mon, you know I mean it all the time. Every day.” His eyes are closing. “Gonna dream about you.”

Ox grins. He’s happy to chalk up that last comment at least to lack of sleep, but it’s still something that he won’t easily forget. He hops out of bed to put the coffee on.

 

 

 

They’ve not won a European game away this season. Not since the 2-1 at the Etihad with the cushion – _last fucking April._ That’s the number one thing he’s not allowed himself to think about, top of the list. Not allowed to mention in any capacity around the lads. He knows his role – the big brain, the original mentality monster. No more shifts at McDonald’s. He’s going to deliver on that, and pray the rest falls into place. (Being six four and fast as fuck doesn’t hurt either.)

The Champions League is not out of their hands, will never be out of their hands, and with him in the side, they’ll play even better than they did at home. He is extra silly on the plane, buys Sadio his favorite candy, teases Gomez more than he strictly deserves. He smiles through warm-ups, making eye contact with each of the guys to ease their nerves. This, he knows Shankly said once, the European Cup, is not pressure – this is the _reward_. His nerves hum as he gets a touch of the ball.

There’s a swelling in his chest, and suddenly he knows they’re going to play Bayern off the park.

Early in the first half, he has about an hour on the ball, so he boots a fifty-yard, delicately weighted leading pass to Sadio. Rafinha goes to pieces, and Süle chases shadows. Sadio takes three perfect touches, couldn’t have done it any other way, and beats Neuer. Like the elite footballer Virgil always knew he was.

He remembers Bobby shoving his head into Sadio’s, he remembers the huddle, he remembers how light and dark played and for a second, everything was just flashes, joy made tangible. Goosebumps all over his body. This is what you play for.

But they go into half time even because Joël, who’s been, honestly, threatening to score an own goal for months, puts it in their net. Gnabry beats Robbo, he doesn’t block the ball into the box, and, to be fair, Joël has no choice but to touch it, or Lewandowski will get the goal, the credit, himself. Still, Virgil’s somehow sure he’d have done it differently.

The game hangs in the balance. He might be imagining the away end singing his name when Milly gets ready to take the corner. His adrenaline pumping so hard it’s almost painful. He knows he’ll win it as soon as the ball is in the air. He knows the header is his, the goal is his, the night is theirs, and the whole fucking continent might belong to them this time.

He scores it. He powers it in, on the ground for a half second and then runs away, someone flash on his heels. Bobby grabs his shoulder, but Virgil pushes him off. Jumps in the air to punch out the crowd, Muhammad Ali style. Hates Germany like any good Dutchman. Then they mob him, and he lets himself be held. They have to have sprinted, he realizes happily. All of them over immediately.

They keep it tight for fourteen minutes. He stays calm, as they like. But truly, Sadio’s runs, his persistence, his tirelessness, his intelligence are what keep him going. His smiles, his concentration, his always keeping cool. He may never know how much Virgil admires him. An arm over the shoulder every training will have to be enough.

Virgil passes Divock another long ball late, who holds it up and finds Salah. Then Mo – who still hasn’t even scored his 50th goal, for God’s sake, he’s got no right – puts a ball into the box and Sadio heads it in. He’s so unsurprised that he just grins and pumps his fist. He’ll only realize later, watching the highlights over and over, that the ball had to be inch-perfect, and that the person Sadio beats to the ball is the Virgil-sized Mats Hummels.

He finishes the match with the armband and gets a good hug from the boss.

Ox texts him _Ballon dor mate!_ and everything feels right.


	14. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil makes a mistake at Fulham. The international break is meant to be a time to decompress.

“Did you see the draw?” Gini asks him in Dutch.

“Yeah.” Virgil switches to English for the benefit of the dressing room. “Can’t believe we got Porto.” He’s just gotten his kit on, and the armband too, tight around his bicep. He loves the grip of it, the sting when it goes on. Loves the way it keeps his shoulders straight and him larger than life. They’ve never lost when he’s led them out, or even drawn. Last he checked, anyway.

“Amazing,” Gini says, shaking his head. “And then we play the winner of…”

“Barcelona-United. So…”

“Barcelona,” they say in unison.

Virgil chuckles. “Got to beat at least one good team to win it.”

“Yeah, it’s easy for you, big man,” Trent pipes up. He gets a few laughs.

“It is, though,” Virgil agrees immediately, with a shit-eating grin.

“Boys!” Klopp whirls in, clapping his hands, and they all fall silent. “Hey, boys! We go again, huh. All to play for, right? Away game. I don’t care how many points they have, or, or, how many points we have. The crowd will be up for it, okay. I don’t want any talking about Bayern, or City, or the -- the fucking international break, okay, we’re here _now_! We’re here to play! We’re here to show these fuckers who we _are_!” Cheers from all around, stomps, yells. “I want high energy, we’re pressing high, I want the defense organized. Speaking of which. Big Virg is leading you out.” More cheers. The pride swells in his chest. “All right? Let’s go, boys!”

He fights to keep his expression neutral as they stride out.

Fulham away is easy, they say, a gift at this point in the season. He’s trained his defense well: they’re not likely to slip against these guys. He spares half a thought for Ryan Babel, his occasional teammate, the former Liverpool player. Couldn’t quite live up to the badge, could you, mate? Expectations are everything.

Then, the whistle blows and he couldn’t think of anything else if he tried. Hold your line, see the spaces, close them down. Find your man and limit him. These strikers are Championship level anyway.

They control the game, as they should. Robbo breaks away early and takes a selfish shot. Then, Sadio plays a one-two with Bobby. It’s lateral but they can’t stop it, no one can stop them. Sadio slams it in even as he’s surrounded by opposition players. Virgil pumps his fist in pure relief. Tying means losing, and they are no longer tying.

“I’m going to steal the boot from you,” Sadio jokes at half time.

Mo laughs, ducking his head as he puts his top back on. “Just wait,” he says. “Lots of games left.”

But they are stagnant in the second half, and they give Fulham chances. The rain starts coming down, and suddenly there are a million places he’d rather be. Dubai, for a start. In the shower with Ox. Cushy salary feeling like enough for a moment. The opposition strikers are boring, not a puzzle to be solved. He digs his nails into his palms, claps his hands so hard it hurts after Fulham score a goal that is ruled out for offside.

Then, Milner plays a ridiculous back pass to him, lobbed in the air. It’s going to be hard to control, he can tell. He has to absolutely nail it. Can’t see if there’s a man on his back, and Craven Cottage sure as shit isn’t going to tell him. Puts his arms out cause he’s big and bad and he’s used to scaring the hell out of the Premier League. Until the header is an inch too short and Babel doesn’t fear him and Alisson fucking hesitates even though he played it with his fucking head, you can use your fucking hands, mate.

For a moment, he can’t see, he’s so angry. They don’t _make_ these kinds of mistakes, he’s established that. He was quick enough, he was brave enough, he was clever enough, he was – he was too confident, wasn’t he. Supreme confidence only works the 99 times out of 100. The world is crashing down in front of his very eyes. It’s difficult to hold his head up. He makes himself do it anyway, taking the ball off the non-celebrating Babel.

Before long, there’s a pass to him in the box (back up there like in his Groningen days, desperate) that falls to Mo, who takes a shot that the keeper can’t handle. He fumbles it and Sadio, the quickest man alive, pounces. Rico takes him down, and the stadium erupts. Sadio, lovely Sadio, has won them a penalty. Miracle of miracles.

Milly steps up, his jaw clenched, his gaze steely. The poor fucker in goal. Still, Virgil closes his eyes until the ref blows his whistle. He’s not on the edge of the box; Klopp doesn’t want him there. Milly puts it right down the middle and the keeper flops to the side. Goal. Game, set, match. Milly’s bailed him out. Bailed himself out, wearing the armband. They go back to controlling the ball and the last ten minutes float by. The anger, the disappointment, and the shame simmer. So he speaks up, forces himself to focus on communicating with his teammates. He’ll think about this great escape later.

 

 

 

But time never feels like it’s on his side, and he’s off to Holland again, training for three days with Gini and the rest before they have to play again. He’s never been to a major tournament with his country, in their infinite soccer wisdom. They managed to stop qualifying for Euros and World Cups as soon as he got good.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, you lot,” says Ox.

Virgil grunts. They’re FaceTiming from his lavish hotel room, as he puts lotion on and pretends not to notice Ox staring.

“Are you upset about it?”

Virgil shrugs.

“Didn’t drop points! No harm done, eh?”

He purses his lips, considering. He’s dropped his gaze. “I didn’t want to lose points with the armband on,” he says quietly. “Haven’t done it yet.”

"Ohhh.” It clearly hadn’t occurred to him. He hesitates. “You’re not a machine, you know."

“I know,” Virgil says, much too quickly. He glances up with an air of guilt.

“You can have a bad game as captain,” he insists. Virgil shakes his head involuntarily, just the tiniest movement that Ox picks up on anyway. He puts on his best reasonable voice. “Listen. You’re going to drop points as captain eventually. If you do it enough.”

“I guess.”

“Look, Virg, I know we call you a Rolls-Royce, but that doesn’t… that’s not…”

“It’s fine,” he says shortly, finishing with the lotion. “Really. Please.”

Ox sighs, unappeased. “How is it being home?”

Virgil grins a little because seeing Dutch everywhere was more comforting than he ever remembered it being. “Yeah, I’m happy. No days off, though.” 

“All right, quit bragging, mate,” Ox says.

“I’m not,” Virgil says earnestly.

“It’s not tomorrow, though, is it? Who’re you playing again?”

“Belarus.”

“Belarus! So that’s a warm-up game. Right?”

“Yeah,” Virgil admits.

“How many days have you got together?”

“Had one. Got two more before the first game. Back to back.”

“There you go,” says Ox. “That’s so much time, man. It’s gonna be fine.”

Virgil shrugs. “We’ve got those Ajax lads as well. They know each other.”

“And they’ve had a good season, you know.”

“Yeah. Hopefully that’ll be enough,” Virgil sighs, messing with his hair, looking at his likeness in the corner of the phone screen. Ox licks his lips: he loves Virgil’s hair.

“Hey, uh. Still got that lotion?”

Virgil chuckles. “Yeah. Why?”

“No, it’s just. I’ve got some here, too.”

He tsks, just to fuck with him. “Aren’t you in your living room?”

“Yeah, so?”

Virgil snickers. “Go to your bedroom. Please.”

“What’s wrong with here?” says Ox.

“Make a mess,” he says with false nonchalance, still running his fingers through his hair. Ox is wholly enraptured. “Come on, go!” he bellows, in that tone that Ox can’t help but obey. He saunters into the bedroom, phone in hand.

“Right. Where do you want me?” he says in his camp voice, flopping down onto the bed. Virgil is taking off his sweats. “Top too,” Ox says. “Let me see you."

“You like that, huh?” Virgil says, smiling. “Now you.”

Ox is already undressing as fast as he can. Virgil watches, his hand wrapped around his dick, getting himself hard, slowly, teasingly, letting the pre-come form at the tip. “Lotion,” Ox says.

“Don’t need much,” he breathes, his voice catching already.

“Wound tight, are you?”

Virgil groans and leans his head back. “You have no idea,” he hears himself say. “Miss you.” He lathers up his hand and the sound becomes obscene.

“Slower,” Ox says, his voice thick. “Fuck, I miss you.”

“Miss this dick, huh?” Virgil says.

“God, yeah,” Ox says as he strokes himself. It’s hard to concentrate on anything but keeping his phone upright and his hand working. “Miss your hands. Miss your fingers -- ugh, inside me.” He’s panting now, his dick so slick in his hand. “Stretching me out, opening me up. Claiming me.”

Virgil mutters “Fuck” under his breath.

“Miss your taste...” It’s getting harder to say it, he’s so undone.

“Slower,” says Virgil this time. “Slow your hand.”

“Yeah,” Ox says, but his hips start rocking without his permission. “Whatever you say, Virg.”

“Good,” he says. “Make it last. Fuck, I miss teasing you. Making you beg for it. Till you can’t get enough.”

“Yeah,” Ox whimpers.

“Finger yourself for me.”

Ox scrambles to readjust the phone. He manages, but he can’t keep a hand on his dick at the same time.

“Spit on them,” Virgil says, as Ox looks at his thick fingers with a hint of trepidation. “Thought you’d do this often.”

“No,” Ox says. “Do you?”

Virgil shrugs, grinning. “Keep it tight for me.”

Ox rolls his eyes, but his expression changes when he puts the first one in. “Fuck, Virg.”

“Good,” Virgil says, his voice husky, as he teases his big, wet dick. “Fuck, look at you. Tell me how it feels.”

“God.” Ox’s voice wobbles. “So good. Not enough.” He’s breathing hard.

“So beautiful like that,” Virgil pants. “Can you do another one?” Ox hesitates. Nods. “Gonna feel so good.”

Ox whines. “Fuck, I wish it was you.”

“Me too,” Virgil says. “Filling you up. Taking you. Rough, if that’s what you wanted.”

“I want it, I want it,” Ox breathes. “I’m close, Virg, fuck.”

“Touch yourself." His voice is low but commanding. “Put the phone against the pillow and let me see you get off.”

“Yes, sir,” Ox says, his head rushing pleasantly. He bites his lip and lets the sensation overwhelm him, keeping his gaze on the screen. Virgil’s sounds are amplified, the wet slide of his dick in his hand, his small noises of pleasure.

“Come for me,” he says, and it’s like he flipped a switch. Ox comes messily all over himself. All he can hear are Virgil’s words of praise. As he comes down, he realizes Virgil has already gotten off, and he's missed it.

“Fuck. I’m lucky,” Virgil says, letting his body relax onto the pillows.

“You bloody are,” Ox sighs. “Lick your come off your hand.” Virgil hesitates. “Come on, I didn’t get to see you come.”

“Oh, you missed it?” Virgil teases.

“You told me to come first!”

Virgil scoffs, but it’s gentle. He lowers his head and licks his hand, slowly, holding his gaze. “I didn’t think it’d work that well.”

Ox blushes. “I liked it.”

“God, I miss you.”

“Miss you,” Ox agrees. The silence stretches, their heavy breathing turning into contented sighs. “Get some sleep,” he says after a while. “It’s later there.”

Virgil smiles. “And you, mate.”

 

 

 

The Belrusians go down easy. Memphis scores in the first minute, Gini gets an early one too, and just before full time, he gets one for himself, completely unmarked in the box for the header. Four-nil on the night. Pressure? What pressure?

But then the Germans come to Johan Cruyff Arena. Sané leads the charge like Pep won’t let him do for City (and part of Virgil fears he might know why). It feels like that night in Manchester again when Sané skips through, outnumbered in the box but not closed down, and Matty slips and he beats the keeper on just 15 minutes, spinning around like it was accidental. Fucking kid.

Then, Virgil doesn’t get the ball off Gnabry and he scores, just past his outstretched foot. A top-drawer, top-corner shot. That’s the level required to beat him, he knows that logically, but the replays will haunt him, he can feel it. Two-nil down now, and Gnabry can say he’s got revenge. Fuck’s sake.

They claw it back to salvage a draw. Memphis does his job, scoring one, and De Ligt gets one for himself, of course, got to stay the golden boy. But then, Virgil switches off on 89 minutes and Schulz breaks through to score (who the fuck is Schulz). The energy of the previous game, the of-course-we’re-gonna-do-it, we’re-the-movie-heroes energy, has vanished. He’s captain here, properly captain, and he can feel himself crying already.

They insist on interviews, the fuckers, but thankfully, he can at least speak in Dutch. He squares his shoulders, makes his frame imposing even with his red eyes and stained cheeks so that they keep it short. The dressing room is silent, and his phone screen blurry for the tears.

_I’m so sorry Virg_

_Thanks_ , he replies. All he wants to do is vent, but at the same time, he can’t make himself say any more.

 _It’s going to be okay. I love you_ , Ox says, and then: _Fuck the Germans! You’re going to the Euros. Of course you are. Look at you_

He puts his forehead against the cold locker, not caring if anyone sees. His teammates may as well be on their own planets at the moment, after the teary hugs and brief words of consolation on the pitch. The emotion still embarrasses him somehow.

_Fuck. I’m crying, man_

_Aww no. Breathe. I want to hold you so much_. _Come home please and let me_

He sniffs. Makes himself breathe, slowly, raggedly. _I love you too._

_Best defender in the world. Don’t make me sing it_

He laughs softly, wiping his nose. _But what if I want you to sing?_

 _God now I know it’s real._ He can almost hear Ox say it. _Ok, snap incoming_


	15. Tracing Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil lets Ox talk him through it. Liverpool leave it late against Spurs.

Virgil flies home from internationals on a red eye. It’s lucky Koeman didn’t expect them to travel together, because there’s no way he could have stood another 24 hours with his teammates. He can wish them a genuine goodbye before he’s happily on his way, hood up and sunglasses on. Ox grips him in a bear hug at arrivals, but he’s so tall that people will notice him. They have to hustle towards the parking lot.

“No entourage?”

Virgil shrugs, like he hadn’t meticulously planned it. “Nah. Not worth it. Wanted to get you alone anyway.”

Ox smiles. “I brought my car.”

They’ve cleared the worst of the foot traffic, and their impending privacy feels surreal. They never get moments like this outside of their houses. It makes Virgil greedy: he’s picturing privacy in the Melwood showers, at expensive restaurants, at bars, where everyone can see how stupidly lucky they are, despite everything…

Ox seems to sense his feeling. His hand brushes Virgil’s for a half second, and there’s a jolt of the electricity he’s been missing. It’s not far, but he drives slow, enjoying the big man’s presence beside him. They don’t turn on the radio. Instead, he listens to Virgil’s recap of the game. He sees everything; it’s always amazed him. The pang of useless jealousy quickly abates, replaced by the gratitude that this man is in his life, in his car, in his house sometimes.

“You’re going to qualify, though,” Ox says as they pull into his well-covered driveway. “You’re too good not to _._ ”

Virgil frowns. “Yeah,” he sighs, running a hand over his waves. “We should.”

As soon as they get out of the car, Ox puts his arms around him, savoring the closeness. He smells good, somehow. It’s not a hug they could do in an airport. They separate slowly, infinitely slowly, and just look at each other, unable to stop smiling. Virgil pulls him in for a kiss, soft, almost shy. Ox runs his thumb along his jaw. “So glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

“Have a nap. I’ll get us some food.”

“Yeah?” Virgil says, surprised by how astutely Ox has read him. But Ox is already getting out of the car, going around to get his luggage from the trunk. Virgil moves slowly, careful like he has to be with those big muscles. “Thanks, man.” He reaches for the suitcase.

“Nah,” Ox says, grinning. He tries again. “Nah, babe, let me.” Virgil blushes: the word is new. He shuffles his feet, a pace behind Ox. “Get some rest and, uh. We’ll talk when you wake up,” he says, letting them in. His sprawling house smells good and familiar and _right_. It hits Virgil that he’s dead on his feet. “Yeah, go for it. Please.”

Virgil smiles gratefully and ducks as his head as he heads for the bedroom. Ox follows, amused.

“Missed your bed,” he murmurs, so soft that Ox thinks he misheard. He’s snuggled up already, halfway to fetal position, eyes closed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Virgil says without opening his eyes. “Come sleep if you want.”

Ox closes the blinds. “Nah, we’ll talk later.”

“All right,” he says, muffled. “Love you.”

“Love you, Virg.”

 

 

 

He doesn't sleep for long, and by the time they've eaten, Virgil can sit back happily on his couch, laughing like he hasn't for days.

“How’s being skipper?” Ox asks.

“I like it,” says Virgil. “Think it makes me play better.”

“Is that possible?”

“Quit it, huh?” Virgil shoves his shoulder lightly. Ox moves anyway, exaggerating it.

“I mean it," Ox says. "Do you need the confidence?" He's not shy, Virgil will give him that.

"No, uh." He scratches his cheek. "It makes me play better. It's nice to have the boss's confidence. The team's confidence."

"But you've always got that, surely."

"Nah." He shakes his head. "Everyone's a professional footballer, they've all got their own opinions."

"You think they don't trust you?"

"It’s not that," he says. Ox waits. "I know they do, but.” He exhales loudly, leans his head back against the couch, considering. “You know my confidence isn't... it's not... What's the word in English?"

"No idea. You've lost me."

"It's not endless. Do you know what I mean?"

"Ah. Yes. Infinite."

"Infinite, that's a good one." He shrugs. "You know it's not. I make mistakes."

Ox shrugs. "They’ve never cost us anything."

"Thanks, mate."

"No, really," Ox says. Every Liverpool player is also a Liverpool fan. "You barely make mistakes, and you've _never_ cost us points."

"Against Leicester," Virgil supplies immediately.

"That wasn't-- you’re not the only player, we were shit that night.”

“Shouldn’t have gotten beaten.”

“Virg, you're the head of this team." Virgil tries to interrupt. "You're the best center back in the world. You're the head of the _best defense in Europe_." He taps his own temple.

Virgil nods abruptly. "I mean, I _am_ confident," he says. "But..." his voice trails off.

“No, I know,” Ox says. Virgil looks up, caught. “The elite mentality. I know. I love you for it.” That earns him a smile. “You’re hard on yourself. But that’s why you need a break. I never see you give yourself a break.” Virgil purses his lips. “Babe, look at you. You’re exhausted. You carried us all season, with broken ribs. And. Most importantly.” He’s gotten to his best point now, Virgil can tell. It’s cute how passionate Ox is -- he bites his cheek to keep from smiling. “You’ve never been in a title race like it. Right?”

“No,” he says quietly, dropping his gaze.

“We _all_ need a break. I do, mate, and I’m not even playing! You do. The fans do. God knows Klopp does. It’s the most intense title race that anyone can remember. Mo’s taken up meditation, for fuck’s sake.” Virgil laughs just a little. It makes Ox ache. “I don’t mean a break like start drinking beer before every match. I just mean… I just mean, let someone else worry about the armband. Doesn’t that feel good? Doesn’t that feel like a relief?”

Virgil cocks his head, wrinkles his nose. He sniffles and wipes his nose. “I mean… I’ve got one already,” he says, and he surprises them both by smiling.

“Exactly. Now you’re getting it. Come here.” Virgil leans down and puts his massive head in his lap. “It’s not gonna get any easier.”

“Twelve more games,” Virgil replies.

“What’s that?”

“Seven more games in the Premier League.” He counts on his fingers. “Two quarters. Two semis. One final,” he says with a grin. “Makes twelve.”

“There he is, the elite mentality. Mentality monster!” He takes Virgil’s hand and kisses his palm, once, twice. Then the inside of his wrist, over and over. Virgil’s eyelids flutter and suddenly the heat of him has become overwhelming. “Don’t leave again,” he groans.

Virgil leans up to kiss him. “I won’t. We’re _both_ going to the Euros, you know.”

Ox beams, that smile that Virgil loves. “Fucking right.”

 

 

 

It’s City’s turn to play Fulham at Craven Cottage, and they win it in the first half. Two-nil always feels good, he remembers Virgil saying. It’s one of his favorite score lines.

The next day, Liverpool host Spurs. Eighteen points above them in the table, with the power of the Anfield fifty-odd thousand at their backs, with their best defense in Europe and their front three that are all world-beaters on their day. Bobby scores early from their first real attack, calm as you like. Nerves eased.

It could be three or four, with the chances they create, but Sadio is not firing today like he can do (he misses two wonder goals by inches) and Mo still chases that record-breaking goal. He’ll do it, Virgil knows, but every time he takes a heavy touch or lingers on the ball too long, he can see the sword of Damocles over his head.

They cling to one-nil through halftime and deep into the second half. Klopp’s not made a change yet. In truth, they’ve been wasteful. Son comes on late. He’s spent seventy minutes bullying Harry Kane, and now their best player is on for just twenty? Handle it, thinks Virgil.

Until Kane takes the free kick without stopping the ball and takes them by surprise. They never catch up, and Lucas Moura rolls the ball into the net easily, beating Trent to the spot. Again, their entire season is in jeopardy. They pour forward, all of them, desperate for something, anything at all.

Spurs break quickly and he finds himself alone, facing up to Son and Sissoko and 55 yards of open grass. No help from Alisson, no help from anyone. His brain switches to worst-case scenarios, full-on panic mode and moving at the speed of light. Lesser of two evils. Son is elite, he knocked out Germany. Shut him down. Let the big lug have a shot at beating Alisson if he wants to. Show no fear, you’re the fastest man in the Premier League. Don’t panic. Whatever happens, it’ll all be over in a matter of seconds anyway.

He shuts down the passing lane as Sissoko lumbers forward, taking Son out of the play. The spaces narrow, slowly but surely. He measures it perfectly, moving over to challenge Sissoko just as he is forced into the shot, and it works! It works -- the ball goes yards over the bar. They are saved! On 85 minutes, they are saved, and he’s happy to be Virgil van Dijk again.

The roof blows off on 90 minutes, just before injury time. Trent puts a ball in the box, perfectly into Mo, and Salah aims a glorious header toward Mané, but instead finds the helpless Toby Alderweireld and his beautiful right boot. It rolls off him straight into the net. Anfield is in rapture. They are back at the top of the table. They are Liverpool fucking Football Club.

He picks the ball out of the net and punts it into the stands. He takes Salah in his arms for a second or two because he’s just as in love with him as the rest. Spurs who? The Spurs that should’ve been knocked out of the Champions League and may not even get top four this season? Those Spurs? Lads.

You take the luck where you can get it, and that’s the kind that wins teams titles.


	16. Difference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ox struggles with consistency and an insecurity or two. Mo scores his fiftieth against Virgil's old team.

Tuesday he trains with the team. Tuesday night he sleeps in Virgil’s bed. 

He’s fit, so fit that he doesn’t even feel his body, no aches or pains, only adrenaline and its lightness, the high of the crowd and the occasion and the fact that he is Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain, England international, fast and strong and so, so smart on the ball. His success is a foregone conclusion, the defenders obstacles he knows exactly how to beat. He’s threading perfect passes through to Sterling, to Kane. He takes a shot from outside the box that swings in past the goalkeeper’s outstretched arms. The crowd jumps to its feet, louder than anything he’s ever known. He can’t see straight. But he lets his legs propel him to the sideline as his teammates gather upon him, crushing him with their celebrations.

Some nights he dreams about Russia.

When he wakes up and his mouth is dry, the Sky pundits are saying over and over in his head, as angry as if they were on the pitch themselves: “But England _suffered_ from a lack of central midfielders in those tough matches toward the end, especially the semifinal…”

He’s back in training, and Virg is, too, even though he’s nursing a bit of a knock from the Spurs game. He gets a break, a chance to mess around in goal, because deep down they all know if he got even remotely injured, they’d be in massive trouble, and not for of a lack of center backs in the squad. The thought stings Ox’s pride. He can’t help it.

He’s feeling good, but the boss rules him out for the reserves game on the Saturday. No explanation, and he says it so abruptly that Ox knows not to argue. Still, his run that evening is longer and harder than usual.

 

 

 

“I need the minutes,” he tells Virgil that night. They’re still leaving Melwood separately, driving to one another’s houses in separate cars, sometimes in circuitous routes. (It makes Virgil seriously consider buying a bicycle.) He’s lying on his stomach on Virgil’s bed, fingers playing lightly with the top of his duvet. “If I want a senior game before the end of the season.”

Virgil grunts. He’s never known an ACL to take less than a year, even for elite athletes. Anyone who comes back sooner risks a reinjury worse than the first. He can’t see Ox playing meaningful minutes this season, unless City start losing lots of games. Unsure of what to say, he slings his arm over Ox’s back in what he hopes is a soothing manner.

“You looked good in training,” he manages. Ox exhales loudly, feeling a lump in his throat. He says, softer, “It hasn’t been a year yet. It’s a miracle that you’re so far along.”

“Not a miracle,” Ox says shortly.

“No, you’re right,” says Virgil. “Not a miracle. But it’s amazing. Your hard work. All of it. I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

Ox cocks his head like _yeah, I know_ , but it’s also because he wants to keep staring straight ahead, afraid to look anywhere else lest the tears fall.

“You’re gonna get back to it. I know it’s been so long, but. You’re almost there. You are.” Ox laughs bitterly and Virgil finally hears the tears. “Hey.” He pushes him so he rolls over onto his back. He wipes the tears with his thumb before holding him down by the bicep and pressing kisses onto his jawline, low towards his neck so Ox smiles at the ticklish sensation. “Please. Please don’t cry,” he murmurs. The arm is still hard, comforting across his chest. “You know we support you. Me. Klopp. The team. We’re all with you, no matter what.”

“Even if--” His voice catches. “Even if. I’m never at the same level again.”

“Don’t even say that.”

He tries to laugh. “I’ve missed it all, Virg.”

“Don’t _say_ that!” Virgil hisses. “You can’t think like that. Even for a second.”

“C’mon, man, it’s not like I say it on the pitch.”

“I know.” He softens. “But if you think it, even for a second, it’ll show. It’ll show somehow and you lose that… five percent, or whatever it is. You need every bit of it.”

This is the elite mentality, and he’s privileged to hear it. It excites him a little, despite everything. Suddenly, a part of him realizes this is maybe the only time he can say it. His heart leaps. “If I’m…” he says. “If I’m never at the same level again. Will it be enough?” Virgil’s brow furrows. “For Virgil van Dijk?”

He realizes. He laughs, dropping his head in what seems to him obvious relief, but when he looks up again Ox is frowning harder. “Yes,” he cries. “Is that what you’re worried about? Really?”

“Fuck off. Yes. I am.”

“Nah, come on. I’ve always loved you,” he blurts. “You’re so goofy, in the same way I am. And your football brain, which -- it isn’t going anywhere, by the way,” he says. “How hard you work, I see it. I always have. You’re so hard on yourself. But I love that. I understand it, and…” He’s embarrassed now. “You’re pretty pretty, you know. Your curls, your freckles. Your smile. Your body. God, man, I miss you all the time when you’re not around. Are you enough. When I never thought--” He drops his head again and clears his throat.

He looks up again, thankfully dry-eyed. “You know,” he says, as sober as Ox has ever seen him, “this football thing is going to go. They’ll forget about me.”

Ox scoffs. “They won’t.”

“Of course they will,” Virgil says, with only a hint of scorn for the masses. He finds a smile. “Well, more or less.”

Ox leans up and catches him in a kiss, this one tender and lingering, hand soft against his cheek. Virgil lowers him down to the bed, opening his mouth slowly with his tongue. “It’s you, it’s you,” he’s whispering.

 

 

 

They’re away at Saints, which, of course, is really home again. But it’s slightly different in a way that is always painful. There’s Maya on the other side, still going strong, his longtime partner, three years older. (He’ll foul Naby in the box later when he’s in on goal, but the ref won’t give the penalty.) Gunn is in goal instead of Forster, but the three up front he knows so well: Redmond, Ward-Prowse, and Long. The ones he told Klopp about in excruciating detail between trips to the physio.

Trent sells out on four minutes and Redmond goes straight past him and gets a ball into the box. Virgil wins the header, as he should. On eight minutes, Højbjerg makes a bold run from midfield and Joël doesn’t track him, guards thin air instead. He makes up the ground to do it all himself, but is a half second too late -- he cannot win the header. Robbo misses the flick on and it’s easy for Shane Long, much too easy. He has all the time in the world to control it on his chest and slam it in the net. Alisson has no chance, and they’re one-nil down already.

But Keita gets his first goal to level it. They're playing better now, and it’s coming, he can feel it. Keita stays even when Henderson and Milner come on and he gives up the armband. The danger has subsided; instead, their attack pushes against the weakening Saints wall. Slow but sure -- that’s always how it goes. His job, to ensure confidence at the back, hasn’t changed. It was never an easy game, he reminds himself every time the frustration threatens to set in. Show some respect.

Mo breaks through on 80 minutes, when the defense has all gone up for a corner. Robbo takes the ball off the defender, and Keita gets it to Hendo, who gets it to Mo. He sprints 50 yards with the ball at his feet (left), and, as soon as the three defenders close in to bully him, he blasts it past the keeper (right). Shirt off, goal scored. Fifty Premier League goals. He is mobbed by the rest of them, and he does his gladiator celebration (are you not entertained?), dodging the advances of Robbo and Hendo. Virgil congratulates him last, bumping chests. The love makes him swell.

Then, Hendo finds his way onto Bobby’s cross into the box and taps it in to seal the three points. Virgil chest bumps him, once, twice, until he hugs him properly, captain to captain.

In the team talk afterwards, Klopp says so much of what Virgil’s thinking. Another three points, maybe their toughest league match done.

He rests his tired legs against the bench, peeling off his under armor, leaning back, letting his big body relax as the boss speaks. He doesn’t feel lucky tonight. It’s starting to feel fated. Like the work they’ve been doing for months is paying off. Like the broken ribs and the never-ending winter were worth it. Like being in the best shape of his life and having the most voice he’s ever had on a team since he was a kid might make a difference.

 

 

 

“Text me,” Virgil said at Melwood before the squad left. “Whenever. Really. Keep me after training, we can work on shooting or tackling or -- or whatever you want, tactics, you know.” Ox laughed. “Anything. I want you to feel good. Feel confident.”

“Will you do PT with me?” Ox said, because he always has to press his luck.

Virgil considered it. “Nope. But I’ll watch TV with you while you do PT.”

“ _Gogglebox_?”

“Whatever you want,” Virgil said again. “But, I have to say, I prefer just kicking it around.”

Ox nodded, eyes on the ground. He was moved, Virgil could tell, but when he looked up, he was smiling. “Fuckin’ nerd.”

“Yeah,” he said, accepting it. “Anything technical you want to talk about, you know I want to talk about it too.”

“Okay. C’mere.” He hugged Virgil tight, rubbing his back just for a second because the lads still milled around them. “Thank you.”

“Tomorrow, yeah?” Virgil said. “Don’t stay home and watch the reserves, all right? Come over.”

Ox beamed. “Yes, sir.”


	17. Long, Long, Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having played on the Friday, Virgil and Ox enjoy a weekend to themselves before the next Champions League game.

“How’s your body? You have a knock, don’t you?"

Virgil grunts. They’re sitting on his couch, having just practiced some 1v1s in his massive backyard. Even though they have the weekend to themselves, there’s nothing they’d rather be doing. They’ve peeled off their layers and sprawled out, each enjoying looking at the other. Thinking about the tricks he’d done, the ways they’d found to surprise each other on the grass. The moments of body heat when one guarded the other too closely, the adrenaline from the touches, although they were meant to be taking it easy.

“It’s going away.”

“Yeah?” Ox says, examining him. “Is it?”

“What’s the matter? I can run, I can tackle.” He’s uncharacteristically annoyed. “I’m going to play.”

“Yeah, yeah, ’course you are, sorry,” Ox says. “Hey. You’re not worried, I’m not worried, mate.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Good. Because.”

He reckons Virgil’s cottoned on to the twinkle in his eye. He rubs his chin, uncertain of how he wants to say it. He feels on edge in a way he can’t explain. “’Cause maybe I want you to, uh…”

“Oh,” Virgil says. There’s a smile on the corners of his lips.

“Lay me out.”

“Is that the reason?”

“It’s not the only reason. But…” he sighs. “Mate. It’s one of them." He can’t fight the smile now, the greed back in his eyes, like it is on the pitch. “Missed you.”

Virgil is across the couch in a split second. He straddles Ox, so much bigger, kissing him, easing just enough pressure onto his throat. Virgil’s other hand reaches down to his crotch. “Fuck, you’re hard for me already.” Ox can only moan, pressed into the couch. “Come here, come on top of me.” He moves over on the couch, watching Ox stand up. “Get that off,” he says lowly. He watches as Ox takes off his pants, and then his boxers, nice and slow. He’s smirking now, pulling his shirt off to show Virgil that chest that he loves, the one that gave him his nickname. Virgil beckons him over with a crook of his finger and Ox is on him, naked as he is clothed, and he holds his bum tight like he likes. Virgil lifts him up easily and carries them both to the bedroom, amid Ox’s unmanly giggles.

He throws Ox onto the bed, to his delight. He takes off his own clothes, much faster, and climbs onto the bed himself. He wraps his hand around his dick, slowly, enjoying the view of Ox waiting for him.

“Are you ready for me?” he breathes, letting the pre-come get his dick wetter.

“I’m ready.”

“Yeah?”

“No lube.”

“Fuck,” Virgil growls. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ox leans up to kiss him. “Please,” he whispers into his lips. “Don’t make me beg.”

Virgil takes the hint and turns him over onto his hands and knees. Still, he can’t help but start slow. His big hand wraps around Ox’s hip, keeping him in place. With the other, he puts the head of his soaked dick against Ox’s hole. Ox groans, pressing his face into the mattress. Virgil’s head spins, imagining the friction. Without another thought, he pushes it in.

Ox cries out. It’s fucking _tight_ , on the right side of painful. “Fuck, Virg.” His grip on his hips is perfect. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to.

“Good?” Virgil manages.

“God. Yeah.”

Virgil makes a sound low in his throat, easing in further, savoring it, as stroke after stroke gets easier.

“Need it,” Ox whines. “Need it, need it.”

“So good, you’re so good,” Virgil cries, reaching for Ox’s shoulder blade now. “Fuck, take it,” as he buries his dick still deeper.

“Please,” Ox begs. “Hold -- hold my throat.”

Unable to think, Virgil obeys, holding him all over now. His fingers pick up Ox’s accelerated heartbeat and stay, holding him there, controlling him. “Virg, I need it,” Ox cries again, and Virgil holds him tighter, fucking him harder, forgetting everything except the urge to take and take and _take_. He’s never been brutal like this.

“Tell me,” he pants, “if it’s too much.”

“No,” Ox cries, his head back now, no leverage at all, just lets his body give, “no no no no.” He’s found the spot.

“Fucking doing to me,” he mutters, and then he breaks into Dutch. But with Virgil’s lips brushing against his earlobe, Ox doesn’t miss a word. He’ll process it later. The streams of Dutch are interspersed with English -- “mine” and “fuck” and “tight” and “you’re so,” over and over and over.

“So full. So fucking full of your cock.” He can feel himself unraveling, his voice sounding far away. “Gonna come, Virg.” His dick hasn’t been touched since the living room.

“I come first,” he says against his ear. Ox barely hears it. “Come inside you first.”

“Yes, sir,” Ox breathes. He’d say anything. Virgil’s hand wraps around his dick, like he’s read his mind.

“Need to--” Virgil shudders as he comes inside of Ox. The feeling of being filled sends him over the edge a few seconds later.

Virgil recovers first, pulling out of Ox slowly and carefully. “Fuck,” he murmurs to himself. He smacks his ass, enjoying the messy, fucked out look of Ox. He grips his ass tight and Ox closes his eyes shyly. “Didn’t think you’d let me do that.”

“What d’you mean?” Ox says. He’s still breathing hard.

Virgil exhales loudly. “I didn’t hold back. At all.”

“Is that a first? Really?” Ox asks cheekily. Virgil hesitates but nods. “ _Fuck_ , you’re sexy. Mate, everyone wants you to do that to them. Don’t be silly.”

Virgil grins, smug. “You don’t mean that.”

Ox shakes his head, laughing. “Enjoy it. I’m not saying it again.”

“Yeah, well,” says Virgil, and the adoration that he sometimes tries to hide is back, around the corners of his eyes, in his smile, “they can’t all take it, can they?”


	18. Too Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ox finally gets a game in the reserves, but his mind is elsewhere. Virgil, Sadio and Mo beat up on Chelsea.

They’ve no fear of Porto, especially at home. He’s happy with his clean sheet, and Naby gets his second goal in just a few days. It’s the confidence he needed after those months of struggling. Bobby scores too, but they miss enough chances to make the night feel subpar. Marega made a few chances of his own, and Virgil can only think of those as he files into the tunnel.

Still, the tension in his shoulders has loosened for the night. _Nine more games_ , he tells himself as the shower’s hot water runs over his face, his chest, his stomach. Ox is the only one who knows about his count. The journalists think he enjoys every bit of it, but he’s got to tell them something, doesn’t he. _Pfft_. Every bit of it? When he lives to assert his dominance and make strikers look like they’re back in school again, playing against the older lads? This race is altogether too close and he can’t wait till it’s over.

But their next stretch is decent: they’re home for another week and then they visit Porto, which is a good place to go, at least it won’t be cold. Everyone shut up about their awful away form after the Bayern result (which he engineered, scoring the goal that took them ahead), and anything’s better than that Red Star stadium.

Ox’s matches feel worlds away, even when he’s holding him in his arms. He loves that he’s back in first team training, of course, and his mix of intensity and lightheartedness that is so familiar, that makes the time fly. He’s even stopped feeling as nervous about his poor knee. He used to tense up every time anyone touched him. But the U23 matches are not something he’s ever focused on, not since he played in them back at Groningen. They’re the last place you want to be as an older player, anyway: if you’re in there, something’s gone terribly wrong.

“We’ve got Leicester away,” Ox says, his attempt at casualness completely unconvincing. “Boss says I’ll start.” He’s breathless.

“Yes!” He jumps up to hug him. “Good.”

Ox beams, his grip tight. “Sunday.”

“Oh,” Virgil says as he releases him, frowning.

“Yeah, I’ll miss the Chelsea game.” He shrugs, trying desperately to look like he doesn’t care. “It’s all right.”

“Hey,” Virgil says. “Don’t worry. Yours is more important.”

“What? No, it’s not.” Ox says without thinking. “You’ve got to win the league.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “ _You've_  got to get your knee back to normal. You only get two of those.”

Ox grins. Of course, he’s absolutely right.

 

 

 

The senior game starts while Ox is warming up. He risks getting fined by sneaking a look at his phone during water breaks: 0-0 at halftime.

But nothing distracts him better than playing. “And we back, and we back, and we back,” Gomez sings to him as they jog onto the pitch, Chance-style. He gives him a big smile. They and Brewster are the reinforcements this U23 -- and hopefully the first team, soon -- desperately need.

He puts in a few passes that he’s proud of. His movement feels all right too, but it's not where it’s meant to be. He strings a pass to Brewster in the first ten minutes, and, bless him, he scores from it. In the end, the assist is his personal highlight, and when he goes off at halftime, they’re three-nil up.

He checks his phone first thing, pulse racing in his ears. The match will definitely be over. His notifications blare: 2-0. “YES!” he shouts to the locker room, before sitting down to watch the highlights. “Unbelievable,” he murmurs as Sadio and then Mo blow Eden Hazard and Chelsea out of the water in a couple of minutes. “Puskas again, d'you think?” he says to Brewster, who is looking over his shoulder, grinning ear to ear.

“Definitely.”

 

 

 

He picks up his car from Melwood and drives straight to Virgil’s. Virgil opens the door and Ox falls immediately into his arms, both laughing, gasping for air, delirious with relief. “Got your clean sheet,” Ox says.

“Yeah, hardest game left. And you got an assist, I heard,” says Virgil as he leads them towards his couches.

“Yeah.” Ox plops down.

“Feel all right?”

“I do, yeah."

“How many minutes in the tank?”

“Forty-five.” He clears his throat.

“Hmm. Did Joe get any?”

“Yeah. Sixty. Brewster was in there too, actually.”

“Good. Need him back.”

Ox shrugs. “Gomez? Maybe.”

“Pfft.” Virgil grins, and then frowns at Ox’s expression. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“C’mon, mate, don’t be like that. Of course he’s going to have a faster recovery than you. He only broke a bone! He was supposed to be back ages ago.” He scoffs in disbelief. “You can’t want Lovren as backup for Joël…”

“No, I was joking. Was joking,” Ox says, cutting him off. Virgil stares. “Nah, I mean, c’mon, ’course I’m jealous, he’s gonna be back in the team before I am, he’s gonna get a shot at the Champions League and the league title, a proper one, of course I’m… and you want him back so badly, you know, your defensive partner…” And he hears it, the pain in his voice, laid bare by his exhaustion, and he sees the knowing in Virgil’s eyes, the way he reads him like he always does.

“You like Gomez,” Virgil says carefully.

Ox has an ugly face on. He figures he’s already come this far. “Not as much as you do.”

“What?! Is that… What’re you doing? Say it. Say it! You brought it up.”

“No,” Ox says, all cold fury, “You brought up Gomez.”

“Only because I thought maybe you wanted to talk about something other than your injury! Do you know…” He cuts himself off, looking away. “Do you know how hard it is for me to see you injured, week in, week out? Do you have any… any idea? When I can’t make it better?”

“I like it when you ask,” Ox says lowly. “It felt good today,” he says, louder, pointedly.

“Good,” says Virgil forcefully. “I’m glad.” There’s a silence. “What do you want me to say? I don’t.... Are you gonna let me say his name?”

Ox rolls his eyes. “Think you have to, don’t you?”

Virgil shrugs with his whole body, opening himself up to Ox. When he speaks again, his voice is low. “He’s straight, man. He’s twenty-one. He’s like a little brother. He’s had a hard time too, you know.”

“Don’t start.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t compare it,” says Ox. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

He looks legitimately confused. “Do you mean Robbo? I didn’t want him. Not then, not ever. It was just a wank. I had to show him who the big man was. Do you-- please don’t tell me you still think about that.”

“I…” It’s all too much. “I have to go.” Virgil starts protesting. “I’m sorry. I can’t.... deal with all this at the minute.” He grabs his bag from beside the door. “Get to Portugal, get your head right. Try not to fuck Gomez, and, uh. I’ll see you when you’re back, all right?”

Virgil has followed him to the front, his entire stance bewildered, hands in the air. “All right,” he sighs.

“Cheers.” He’s out the door like a shot. He drives home with a heavy right foot, biting his lip till he worries it’ll bleed.


	19. Pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool play out the second leg in Porto. Ox has an idea for how Virgil can finally be forgiven.

Barcelona beat United, of course, and now await them in the semifinal. Gomez travels to Porto and Ox doesn’t.

He won’t invite anyone over, not Brewster, not his brother. Instead, he fields texts and keeps an eye on the group chats as he watches the first half. Gomez comes on for Trent at 66 minutes -- fuck’s sake, Klopp loves him too. Yes, they’re 4-0 up on aggregate, but who makes a right-back substitution? But a part of him feels guilty because he knows he shouldn’t feel like this about his teammates. Squad harmony makes or breaks. In truth, he loves the lot of them, and, somewhere deep down, he loves Gomez too. He can imagine the total lack of pressure, despite the enraptured European audience. Can practically feel the rush anyway, the air on his skin again.

They concede just a few minutes after Gomez comes in, but it’s not his fault. “Organize your defense, Virg,” Ox tsks.

He’s turned off City notifications, but Brewster and the others have started talking about it, so he throws his phone down on the couch and starts lifting weights to distract himself. Bobby scores a pretty header. Now each of the front three has his goal.

Virg himself scores the last one from a Mané flick off a corner. He doesn’t even need to jump. But, for once, his celebration -- relatively subdued, given the circumstances -- grates. Still, 6-1.

He picks up his phone accidentally to find it alive with notifications, pouring in from all corners **.** A sudden rush of energy courses through him; he senses something has happened. Now, the notifications are from Virgil and the rest who’ve just come off the field. City have lost. Spurs are through.

“Get iiiiiiiin!” he shouts, bounding to his feet without pain for the first time in months.

 

 

 

He’s woken up late, muted Virgil’s texts, played FIFA, and wanked, and he’s scrolling through his socials when he sees the kit video they did has finally dropped. The one he starred in, truth be told.

He’s seen himself on camera so much that he doesn’t hesitate to click. He’s charming, he knows it. He’s always fancied his chances as a pundit, or even a presenter, after he retires. He had that on his mind as he wandered around the stadium and the cameraman followed.

He and Virgil flirt incessantly. They are so easy and happy. It wasn’t long ago. His favorite bit is when he points out the spot in the net where he scored that goal against City. “Just tickled the net.” He winks. And he mentions Virgil’s first ever goal for Liverpool, on his debut, of course. Ox slid and hugged him, blissfully ignorant of how much he loved him then, would grow to love him, would always love him. “There was a knee slide and embrace, and I know you remember.” There’s something to it, to saying it in front of everyone, in front of as many people as possible. Is it pride? There’s a reason those celebrations are so physical, every time, a release. He finishes the video and then watches it again, the self-indulgence of it making his skin prick just a little. He glances at his phone. Just the seven messages from Virgil then.

 _I’m back. Let me come over. Please._ He lets his fingers scroll up, almost as if they’re detached from his body. He reads the texts numbly, the apologies, the explanations, the stupid emojis.

It’s gotten dark and they’ll be back in training tomorrow. He picks up his keys and wanders out the front door to his car, starting the engine before quickly typing:

_I’m coming to you._

 

 

 

He gets to Virgil’s within ten minutes: it’s late enough that people aren’t on the roads much, and he drives fast, despite the butterflies in his stomach. He parks the car and locks it, noticing that Virgil has texted back. He knocks aggressively on the door, enjoying this license.

Virgil is quick to answer, half a frown etched on his face that immediately disappears when he sees it’s Ox. Like he can hardly believe he’s there at all. “Hey,” he says thickly.

Ox nods. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, ’course, mate,” Virgil says, calm as always. He stands aside, and Ox steps inside the massive door. The house feels proportionate to Virgil in every way, but it’s always felt homey, even the first time he was here. “Want to sit down?”

“I want… to go to your bedroom."

Virgil is caught out for once. He raises his eyebrows. “Okay.” He hasn’t moved. “Well, you know the way.”

Ox strides confidently to Virgil’s room and takes a seat on the massive bed. “C’mere. Sit down.” He pats the spot beside him. Virgil obeys, that confused and slightly amused look still in his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it,” Ox says. He glances up at Virgil uncertainly. “I know I told you to think about it, but I have as well, and, uh. I realized this isn’t about Gomez. You were right. He _is_ incredibly straight, ha. And I like him. I do. And… I realized you probably wouldn’t have even asked about him if you were texting him, or seeing him, or whatever, and. It’s important to like your teammates, to be there for them, especially when we -- when you all -- are playing like you are. I mean, even last season, it was fantastic, the Champions League run we had.” He’s rambling now, getting off track. “And, of course, you’re allowed to have friends. Of course you are. I wouldn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t, right? But. I do think.” He sighs. “It’s about Robbo. And I’m sorry.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“I’m sorry. That it still is. Cause I can’t help it. But! I thought of something that will… well, it’ll make me feel better. It’s gonna sound crazy. And, it probably is crazy.”

“Ox,” says Virgil warily.

“But I need you to trust me because I know -- I _know_ \-- it will make me feel better, and believe me, I wouldn’t suggest it if I thought there was another way."

“Ox.”

“What?”

“For me, it’s not about Robbo. It’s never been about Robbo. I don’t… I don’t know how to make you believe me, but. I… we were-- we weren’t sure of anything, you and me, at the time, and if, if I knew that it was going to upset you--”

“It’s all right,” says Ox, with his trademark confidence. “Or, well, it will be. I’ve thought about it.” He sighs. “I need to know exactly how it happened."

Virgil shakes his head, confused. “I told you.”

“I need you to show me.” Realization dawns on Virgil’s face. “We have to recreate it, right here. It’s the only way I’ll feel better.”

“This _is_ … definitely a little weird.” But there’s hope somewhere in his voice, in his gaze.

Ox shrugs. “We don’t have to. I can just go.” He stands up.

“No, wait, wait, wait.” Virgil puts his arm out to block his path. “We can do it. Okay. You be Robbo."

“Right. And you be -- you.” He grins.

“I’ll try.” Virgil smiles back. “Okay, uhm. So -- the TV’s there, that’s good, that’s perfect. There were two beds, but we’ll have to pretend--”

“Your bed is the both of them,” Ox agrees. His king-size bed will work just fine.

“So this far side here was my bed, and over there is his bed, closer to the door. So I was sitting here, watching TV.” He props himself up on the headboard, pretending to scroll through the channels. “Quickly found the porn channel.” Ox rolls his eyes. “He was -- you were -- outside somewhere, drinking."

“Drinking?”

“Yeah, of course, he stunk of beer. That’s why he was so brave. Anyway. Go over there, be by the bathroom for a minute. So I’m watching, starting to wank. It’s Valentine’s Day, you know, I’m a little bit lonely.”

“Save it."

“All right. And, uh, I hear a sound at the door, and I realize what’s about to happen. And I’d put the remote’s over there, so I have to get it.” He throws himself across the bed. It’s a full faceplant, which makes Ox laugh. “No, seriously, it was like that. Hurt my dick so much.”

“I can imagine. That big body.”

“Yeah. So. I managed to get it off in time. He didn’t see anything. But then he comes in and I’m actually -- lying across the bed, just like this. Trying to keep it casual. But even though he’s drunk, he realizes that something is going on. He says ‘what are you watching’ and he grabs the remote.”

“Little Robbo? Got the remote off you?"

“Ah ah ah, but you’re forgetting I have to hide my dick from him. He’s standing, remember.”

“Right.”

“Come over here and do it,” Virgil insists. Ox smirks, but he finds it’s fairly easy to grab it when Virgil can’t move his entire lower half. “Now, press Power.” He does. “Right back to the last thing I watched.”

“American movies, of course.” He flicks it off again.

“Yeah,” Virgil says. “Anyway. He’s got it on. And I’m embarrassed, cause now he’s realized why I’m not moving and calling me a dirty bastard, you know, he’s not shy even when he’s sober, is he? And then -- he tells me to keep going."

“What?"

“Yeah, he said, ‘don’t mind me.’ And he sat down on the other side of my bed.”

“And you’ve still got a hard-on?”

“Yes!”

“So what did you do?” Ox says, sitting down as Robbo had.

“I panicked,” says Virgil. “You know I always like to be cool and calm, cause then I’m in control. I had no idea what to do. I was caught off-guard. And horny. And lonely. Pfft. Had been thinking about you all day. So I thought, I’ve wanked with friends before, this’ll just be another one of those. Even though it’s been years."

“He got his cock out then?”

“Yeah,” Virgil sighs.

“Should I get mine out?” Ox asks.

“Better not,” says Virgil quickly.

“So we’ll act it out,” Ox says, miming wanking. “Go on.” Virgil copies him. “And where are you looking?”

“I dunno where _he_ was looking. I was looking at the screen."

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Virgil says. “I never had a thing for him, you know.”

“Okay."

“So we’re just wanking, it’s kind of quiet, except, you know--”

“You can hear each other.”

“Right.”

“That’s kind of sexy,” Ox says provocatively.

“No. It was _awkward_. Just trying to hurry it up, but also not wanting him to see my come face, or… I don’t know. Anyway. And then he says, ‘Are you close?’ at some point. And I say, ‘Yeah.’”

“Why?” Ox says, the hurt back in his voice.

“I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking clearly. I said… I said I was. And then he tells me to finish.”

“What?!” Ox can’t help himself. But he shouldn’t be surprised, either, the way Robbo grabbed Virgil’s dick at the club, the way he couldn’t keep his voice down. “Let me see that big nob again.” It keeps ringing in his ears.

“Yeah,” Virgil says darkly. “Tells me to finish. I look over at him, finally, and he grabs my cock.”

Ox leans over and aggressively palms the front of Virgil’s shorts, only taking the slightest bit of pleasure from his flinch. “And then you came."

“And then I came, yeah.”

“Fuck.” Ox sits back.

Virgil stares at the ceiling, biting his lip.

“Did you want him to?”

Virgil shakes his head, but whether it’s an _I don’t know_ or a flat-out _No,_ Ox can’t be sure.

“So?”

“So, I... I come. And then I look over at him and he’s just _looking_ at me. Not the TV, just me. And all of a sudden I got so… angry. I had to show him, I don’t know what. So I go over to him--” He climbs over Ox, like he’s done so many times before, and his size is so apparent, is even menacing without the usual gentle look in his eye-- “Just like this, and I take his dick.” He presses his palm against Ox’s shorts for a second to simulate it, and his touch is so right that, embarrassingly, Ox feels his body reacting. Virgil’s face is like stone. “Take his dick in my hand, and wank him.”

“You did."

“Yeah. I said, ‘Is this what you wanted?’”

“You said...” Ox’s mind has half fogged over with lust.

“I mean, it was obvious he did. But I had to say it. You know, I had to ask. Actually."

“What?”

“His hand was here,” he says, demonstrating with Ox’s hand, “cause he’d been wanking himself, and I took his hand and his dick together. Wanked him like that. Held his face like this.” He cradles Ox’s jaw. “But the rougher I was with him, the more he liked it. He was so hard. And I told him to finish.” Virgil presses his lips against Ox’s ear, the way he’d done to Robbo. “Told him to _fucking_ finish.” Ox shivers, now half-hard in his boxers. Virgil backs up.

“And he did?”

It’d be impossible for Virgil not to look smug just then, if only for a millisecond. “Yeah. He did."

He clears his throat. “And, um. How… how long did the whole thing last?"

“A few minutes. He came almost immediately.” He goes back to his side of the bed, looking intently at Ox, gauging his reaction.

“Huh."

“I had to get that power back, man. I didn’t like the way he came in here, looking at me. Wanking in front of me. It wasn’t-- it wasn’t right.” He’s staring at the blanket now, his tone oddly wounded, like it is when Ox teases him too hard or shoves him during an overly competitive FIFA match.

“Yeah. Was it even -- sexy?”

“I don’t know.” Virgil hesitates. “You would’ve hit him.”

Ox lies down across the bed to put a hand gently on his knee, rubbing it with his thumb. “I’m sorry."

“It’s okay,” he says instantly. “D’you think…” He blows his cheeks out. “Do you think I did the right thing?”

“Dunno,” Ox says. He’s weighing his every word now. It feels important to. “I think you did the right thing at that club, throwing him like that.” He chuckles as he acts it out.

Virgil laughs too, his head falling back like it always does, shoulders relaxing into the headboard. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Fuck,” Ox murmurs. Virgil grunts in answer. “But it’s been all right, since, hasn’t it. I mean, you two playing together.”

“Yeah,” Virgil nods. “Yeah, it has.”

“That’s cause you’re in charge on the pitch,” Ox grins.

“That’s right,” Virgil smiles, sliding down so he’s lying beside Ox. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No,” Ox whispers. He loves it when Virgil talks like that, but the importance of the moment lingers, heavy in the air. He treads carefully. “I… I’m glad you told me,” he says softly. “Thank you. And thank you for agreeing to do this.”

“Nah. Thanks for letting me. And, uh. To be honest. I’d do a lot more to get you trust me again.”

Ox smiles and tilts his body toward him.

“So, are we all right?” asks Virgil. His heart rate still hasn’t slowed, and he hesitates to touch him, as if he’ll scamper away at any moment.

“Yeah,” Ox says, stroking his stubble. “We’re okay.”


	20. Keeping Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ox gets good news. Liverpool win at Cardiff, but City match them.

Saturday morning, they go to Milly’s to watch City. Some of them feel the need to (Trent, Ali, Joël). Most can’t stand it, especially now that it’s out of their hands. But Milly’s got the setup and the best stuff in his fridge, so they gather around his TV, phones in hand, and chat shit.

Phil Foden, younger than even Brewster, scores in the first five minutes. 

“I’d have scored that,” says Trent before going back to his phone.

“ _I’d_ have scored that,” echoes Gomez, and they crack up.

“Team of tap-in merchants, these,” Ox says.

“Fucking hell,” says Milly at half-time, between Ox and Virgil on the couch. “Is it over already?”

Late on, Spurs and Lucas Moura create chances. “Virg, are you enjoying this?” says Ox loudly. “Watching Laporte and Zinchenko deal with those two?”

Virgil makes his “not bad” face. “Son is quality,” he admits, which sends the youth into raptures. “Better than Kane. That’s why I let Joël handle him.”

“Ha ha,” says Matip pointedly from his granddad armchair.

The time ticks down, and despite the precarious scoreline, Spurs are starting to look distinctly — Spursy. “They won’t do it,” Trent declares, all doom and gloom. Their attack looks so wayward toward the end that City are happy to let them have the ball.

“Oi,” Gomez says. ”It’s not over yet.”

“It might be,” says Gini, morose.

“They won’t do it,” Ox announces. “Not these North Londoners.”

“Shush, Ox,” says Brewster, as if he’ll jinx it.

“Blown their load, haven’t they? From last week?” says Robbo. Ox steals a glance at Virgil, who is still looking at the TV, but grimacing.

“Looks like it,” says Milner, as the ball goes out of play just before time, and the frustrated groans arise from all corners, mostly variations on “Fuck’s sake.”

Virgil’s giving him the look from across the couch, the “can-we-go” which is so blatantly spousal that Ox feels his face heating up. He clears his throat and takes advantage of his spot right next to Milly, which, now that he thinks about it, Virgil probably engineered for this purpose. “Right, we’re off.”

“Oh, already?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” says Milly. Ox feels himself blush even harder. Behind Milly, Virgil is watching with a shit-eating grin.

“Er, me. Sorry. Ahem. Still got physio work to do and stuff, so.”

“Right, well, take care—” says Milly, but he’s cut off by Trent and Brewster trying to intercept him to make their own quick exit. Ox gives Virgil a meaningful look, and the two of them wander toward the door, trying vaguely to make it look like they’re doing it separately, before getting in the same car.

“Big help you were,” says Ox, but Virgil can hear his smile as they get in.

“Hey, I was the one had to catch a ride with Joël,” Virgil says. “Carpooling like a kid,” he complains as Ox pulls out of the driveway.

“Yeah. Be worth it, though,” Ox says, putting his hand on Virgil’s thigh. He’d kiss him if he didn’t think he’d be seen. “What time is the team bus?”

Virgil puts his hand on Ox’s. “Four,” he murmurs, the regret obvious in his voice.

Ox tsks, but “We’ll manage,” he says.

Virgil grins. “It’s not far to yours, anyway.”

 

 

 

It’s early enough when they get in that the sunlight streams through Ox’s curtains and makes him feel decadent as Virgil presses him against his bedroom wall, palm flat against his hip while his other hand grips his ass. Kissing him, holding him hard till he can’t think straight. Ox pulls off to kiss his neck, and “Fuck,” Virgil groans. “I miss you already.” He picks him up and hauls him over to the bed.

Ox backs up onto the bed and scrambles out of his clothes. When he looks up again, Virgil is naked except for the shirt he’s pulling off. Ox may never get used to looking at him. He puts his hands on either side of Ox’s hips and kisses him again, the friction between their bodies light and teasing.

He grips Virgil’s bicep and everything feels slow and easy. Virgil’s hand wraps around his dick and it’s all he can do not to thrust up into it, to just stay put and kiss him softly, and Virgil must know because he holds him still, working him harder slowly.

“Virg,” he whispers. They both grin, watching his dick get wetter as he spreads the pre-come. “So good.” He bites his lip.

“Love to look at you,” says Virgil. Ox can see his dick, full, heavy, ignored. “Let me make you come.” As if they have all the time in the world.

“God,” he manages, leaning his head back against the pillows. Virgil kisses his neck, his warm, strong thighs on either side of him.

“Want you to think about me,” he murmurs, tickling his neck with the little vibrations between kisses. “In the shower tonight. Tomorrow. When you turn the game on. When we win.”

Ox grins and holds his jaw, his neck so hard he’ll leave little round bruises. “When you’re yelling,” he says lowly. “Bullying those poor strikers.”

Virgil grunts. “You like that?” His grip on his dick gets rougher and Ox whines. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes. “I love it.”

“That turns you on?”

“Yes, Virg.”

“Slut,” he whispers in his ear, and Ox makes a noise as his fingers tease his balls. “Think about me and touch yourself while I’m gone,” he murmurs. “Will you?”

“Yes, Virg.” _Whatever you say._

“Come for me.” Ox writhes, pressed against the bed, overheating, feeling exactly like giving in. “Baby, come for me,” he says again, lips against his earlobe, and Ox closes his eyes and comes. He feels Virgil kiss his cheekbone, his jaw and sink heavily down beside him. When he opens his eyes, he notices Virgil’s dick is still hard.

“I missed you,” says Virgil, but his voice is strained. Ox laughs, feeling almost high, he’s so relaxed.

When he can speak again, he says, “Don’t you have that bus to catch?” But there’s a gleam in his eye.

“Fuck.” He grabs his phone. “Yeah, I do. Let me grab a quick shower and then I’ll just--”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Ox says. Virgil scampers to his feet, dick wagging hilariously, and disappears into the bathroom.

Ox wanders in a few minutes later and yells, “I’ll drive you!” over the sound of the shower. To his surprise, the water turns off and Virgil opens the door, grabbing a towel and giving him a wet kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, last away game without you. I know it.”

 

 

 

Fabinho and Gomez benchwarm. Mo, Bobby and Sadio each get a first-half chance that they can’t finish off. Ali makes a good-looking reflex save and they’re nil-nil at the break. Dominating like they always do these days.

But a goal’d be nice. Trent takes an innocuous enough corner and, from absolutely nothing, Gini puts it in the back of the net. Perfect technique on the replay. He runs and cheers with his eyes screwed tight, fist clenched, mouth open, like it’s the first goal he’s ever scored, like he’s won them the league on his own. Too much joy for his 5’9” frame.

But an insurance goal’d be nice. The big center half Morrison has a golden chance to equalize and bottles it. On 79 minutes, Bobby gets in the way of his clearance. The ball could go anywhere. Mo charges it down, racing into the box. Morrison catches up, and decides to hold him around the waist as Mo turns one way, then another. Trying to play the ball -- he has to, as Mohamed Salah. Martin Atkinson watches carefully. Mo goes down after five full seconds of being held and Atkinson gives the penalty.

Milly buries it in the right-hand corner and runs away like Gini did, only to do an old-man celebration like he’s thrown his back out. Three points! 

The relief is more overwhelming than any sense of joy. Top of the table where they belong. But the confidence he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. He reckons when he’s older he’ll wish he found a way to bottle this feeling. _He’s our center half, he’s our number four._

 

 

 

City play United on Wednesday and there’s nothing they can do, nothing that can keep their minds off it for the 90 minutes and 15 for half-time. Not sex, not recovery, no workout that can keep them away from their phones for that long. They’ve tried everything. Might as well watch. They do it at Virgil’s, each leaning against an arm of his massive couch, legs occasionally tangling. Ox is glued to his phone, anxious in a different way to Virgil’s constantly yelling at the screen. He has a beer on the table beside him that he hardly touches.

At half-time, Ox looks up from his phone and says casually, “Boss says I’ll get minutes against Huddersfield.”

“What?! When?”

“Just now,” he says, smiling slyly.

“YES!” he cries. “Come here.” Ox dives across the couch, landing on top of his massive chest rather painfully. “Jesus,” he laughs, holding him around the middle. Kisses the top of his head. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Ah, easy,” says Ox, but he can’t hide his grin well enough. “It’ll only be a few minutes.”

“You don’t know that,” says Virgil immediately.

“It will. It better be, anyway,” he laughs.

“When we’re three-nil up.”

“That’s it, mate.” Ox sighs happily, comfortable against his chest. Virgil’s hand dips cheekily down to his hip, tracing circles there, and suddenly he is dizzy with want. It’s all too much. The pundits’ voices still blare onscreen. But it’s nil-nil. “You think United have a chance?” he says, half to keep himself on the ground.

“Hmm?” Ox can tell he’s disappointed. Virgil turns his brain on. “Well. Anything could happen.”

“Yeah,” Ox agrees, picking up his phone and moving to the other side of the couch. Virgil groans. “I’ll suck your dick after if City drop points.”

He's somewhat mollified. “And if they don’t?”

“You suck me off. Deal?” Virgil makes a noise. “Come on,” he goads. “Know you want to.”

“They’re not _going_ to drop points though, are they?”

“Well, then I’ll eat you out if they don’t. How’s that?” Ox says, his eyes still on his phone.

“Jesus, Ox,” Virgil mutters. Ox glances up, smug at the sight of a definite erection in his shorts.

Ox shrugs. “Say no if you want," he teases.

Virgil jerks his legs towards him so that he’s flat on the couch and kisses him. The game (and maybe the bet) are forgotten.


	21. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ox gets on the pitch for the first time in a year as Liverpool beat Huddersfield 5-0.

Instead of making good on their bet, Ox falls asleep, and Virgil wakes him accidentally when he gets up.

“Oh,” he says groggily, stretching, eyes half-open.

Virgil smiles, walking into the adjacent kitchen. “Want some tea?”

“D’we win?”

“No,” Virgil calls as he puts the kettle on. “Did Man United win? No.”

Ox grunts. “Just as well,” he mutters.

“Did you sleep through all that?” he says, amused.

Ox shrugs, then realizes Virgil can’t see him. “Heard bits and pieces.”

“To be fair,” Virgil says, “it wasn’t very exciting. Two-nil.”

“Got training tomorrow?”

“Yeah. _We_ do,” says Virgil happily. “Light one in the afternoon. Easy.”

“Wooo,” Ox says, forcing himself to stand up. He pads over to Virgil at the stove, hugging him from behind. “Mm. Hard to believe sometimes.” he murmurs into his sweater.

Virgil’s quiet for a moment. It feels important to say the right thing. And then it comes to him, like it always does. “Easy to believe it. Look at you. You were always going to get here, man. Ready to go.”

The words make his throat ache. They also ignite something within him, a feeling of steel that takes over him like it always does when he has something to prove. Tomorrow, as soon as they let him on the pitch, he’s going to remind them who he is. Remind himself first. “It all feels surreal,” he says aloud. “That day a year ago. Now. Game tomorrow.” He backs up and looks Virgil in the eye, turns around and lets him hold him from the front, arms soothingly warm against him. He could fall asleep on his feet. Suddenly, the kettle whistles and Virgil has to let him go.

“Want a cup?” he says, and Ox says yes. “Puts things into perspective though,” he says softly. “I know it’s a cliché, but... it’s true.”

“It is,” Ox agrees. “I never appreciated it like I do now. Like _you_ always do,” he says, realizing the truth of the words as he says them. It’s in everything Virgil does.

Virgil smiles a little. “Count your blessings, ah? I do appreciate it, but that’s only cause I had to fight every step of the way.”

“You’re right,” says Ox meekly. He knows the stories. He still wants to hear them again (he, the footballer’s son, who often reminds himself that he has more England caps than his father, always will).

“Here,” Virgil says, handing him the mug. “Come, sit with me. Let’s watch something stupid. Fall asleep if you want.”

Ox chuckles. “All right, then.”

 

 

 

Home against already-relegated Huddersfield should be the easiest game of the season. In the back of Virgil’s mind, he’s aware they stole the reverse fixture last fall. But that is worlds away, and this year longer than any he’s ever known. City may be stomping United and every other team they come across, but Liverpool are right alongside them, every step of the way, just as powerful, just as intimidating.

And Ox is on the bench.

The whistle blows for kickoff and Keita scores 15 seconds later. Nothing’s more satisfying than the high press paying off. Keita is delirious with joy, their celebration coming so soon that it feels like nothing more than an extension of their pre-game huddle. Sadio gets one on 23 minutes, and Mo matches him right before half-time. Sadio scores another in the second half: it’s the season of his life. Virgil loves when he scores headers. He’s got absolutely no right. They’ve never left first gear. And surely Ox can come on at four-nil.

He hears it before he sees it, so focused is he on keeping his defensive line. His heart leaps into his mouth when the loudspeaker announces the substitution. He glances over to the sideline and there Ox is, grinning, fidgeting, his gaze flicking toward Virgil once or twice. He’s nervous, Virgil knows, but there surges within him this great trust, a powerful confidence in Ox and the work he’s put in, that he’s never stopped putting in for a year now, that sits nicely next to the almost unbearable pride. He clears his throat before something gets stuck in it.

The minutes race by and, for the most part, he manages to savor them. Before long, Shaqiri brings the ball down expertly and Ox makes a neat little run into the box. Mo puts it right at his feet. He feints right, left, (Virgil can hardly stand to watch) and does the hard part, beating multiple defenders before misplacing the shot so the keeper saves. His first touches of the match. He’s running back, but he’s smiling, he’s still smiling.

5-0 feels exactly right. Mo gets the last goal. He tries out another celebration, lotus position this time, and Virgil makes sure to hug him after everyone else has, overwhelmed with a joy that is almost painful in how it pounds through his every vein. He could do laps of the pitch afterward for the adrenaline.

He congratulates Ox afterward, and his ear-to-ear grin and the strength of his grip, the tension that keeps his body taut as they exchange the briefest of hugs, will have to be enough for now as the cameras swarm.

 

 

 

"I'm so proud of you," Virgil says that night, over and over, between kisses, in the shower and out of it. "So proud. So relieved. So happy."

Ox grins at him, arm strewn across him on his massive king-sized bed. He's covered everything. Well, almost: "Were you scared at all?"

" _Now_ you ask me," Virgil teases.

"Were you?"

"Of course I was!" he says, indignant. "Could hardly say it to you before you played, though. You needed confidence."

"Yeah," Ox concedes. "Done all right, though," he says, grinning. "Could've done with the goal, but never said I was perfect."

"Can you imagine if you'd scored that?" Virgil cries.

"The roof would've come off, I bet."

"I'd have kissed you right there," he says, the wonder still in his voice. "Maybe it's a good thing you didn't, then," he laughs.

"Next time," Ox murmurs. It's just something to say – in reality, he wouldn't dare to think that far ahead, beyond his recurring dreams.

It's been a great day. Part of him aches to be out celebrating like the social butterfly he is. He can't remember the last time he went out on a Friday night. Whether it’s because he’s a pro footballer at the international level or because the only person he’d want to go out with happens to be this big sexy conspicuous bloke – well, that he prefers not to think about. Friday and Saturday nights at home are nice enough. The weather's still bloody cold anyway.

When he looks over, Virgil is miles away. Ox suddenly realizes he'll be hitting the town a lot sooner than Ox will. "Are you thinking about the awards show?"

"Mmm," Virgil agrees.

"Are you nervous?" he asks.

Virgil bites his lip with a sudden grave air. “Yeah,” he says, but it comes out like a question. He glances at Ox out of the corner of his eye and smiles a little. “It’s still pretty new, you know. All the fuss.”

“But surely you like it, though?”

He shrugs, like no one has ever asked him that before. Maybe they haven't. “I mean, it’s a good problem to have, but. I’ll be glad when the ceremony’s over.”

 

 

 

Ox watches in his living room as Virgil wins, as he makes his speech, calm as you like. He thanks everyone he’s supposed to, in the right order, with a good amount of sincerity. Without overdoing it, with that humility that still, somehow, turns him on. He saves the smug smile for the photos afterwards, and the cameras that circle him and Sadio and Trent and Robbo. That mix of pride and jealousy, as familiar as breathing, does nothing to hinder the smile he can’t keep off his face.

His doorbell rings sometime after midnight. When he opens the door, Virgil is there, smiling, chest puffed out, dapper in his suit. He’s got a bouquet that he presses into Ox’s arms by way of greeting before enveloping him in a bear hug that lifts him off his feet. He smells of cologne and champagne; he is, as always, overwhelming. Ox protests weakly as Virgil holds him high, buried in his chest, saying things he can’t quite make out. 

“—happy to see you,” he says, putting him down.

“Congratulations,” Ox says, breathless.

Virgil grins devilishly. “Did you watch?”

“Yeah, ’course I watched, man, come in.”

“I’m a little… drunk,” Virgil says, putting his elbow against the wall.

“Virg! Are you smashed?”

“No, no, no, I’m not.” Ox makes a doubtful face. “One champagne, two, that’s all.”

Ox chuckles. “Lucky you.” At this point in the season, they’re meant to be finely tuned machines. He leans his shoulder against the wall. “Would I be taking advantage?”

Virgil throws his head back and cackles before leaning in to kiss him chastely on the lips. Ox holds his bicep.

“I like the suit,” he says softly.

“Did I look all right?” Virgil says, softer.

Ox puts his head against his chest and looks up at him. “Haha. Yes, Virg.”

Virgil picks him up rather suddenly and carries him upstairs to the bedroom. Ox whoops and hollers even as he holds on to him for dear life.

They make it there somehow, and Virgil, panting, throws Ox onto the bed.

“Are you gonna be able to _play_ after that?” Ox cracks.

Instead of retorting, Virgil jumps onto the bed next to him, on his side, looking at him. Ox kisses him, _finally_ , touching him like he’s wanted to for ages, straddling him. “Want to make you feel good,” he says. “I owe you.”

“Okay,” Virgil grins.

He’s smiling, he’s casual, but he’s also out of his clothes in seconds, his dick quickly getting hard. For once, Ox is clothed and he is naked, and the lights are on, and his body really is that perfect. Ox is finding it hard to concentrate. Until Virgil murmurs his name and Ox holds his thigh and presses kisses into the soft skin there, slowly, teasingly, edging towards his hole. He grips his cock with his other hand, slowly jacking him so the tip gets wet. “Fuck, Ox,” Virgil breathes as Ox kisses around the little pucker, letting his hand drop lower to play with his balls. “Please,” he begs. Ox holds Virgil’s thighs and only hesitates for a moment before he puts his mouth against his hole, sucking him so he moans, louder and needier, working him with one hand as he fucks him with his tongue. The sound is obscene, but it only makes Ox’s neglected dick harder, makes him rut against thin air as his nails dig into Virgil’s thighs.

He backs up and spits on the hole. Virgil cries out at the loss of his mouth and Ox jerks him harder, rougher. He puts one finger and then another inside him. Virgil whines at the stretch, his dick twitching in Ox’s hand as he easily finds his prostate. “So good. Don’t stop.” He’s coming apart now, his hips loose in Ox’s touch, his arms languid beside him. “Fuck me, fuck me.” This big man in the palm of his hand.

“Should I make you wait?” Ox says, but his voice catches, giving him away.

“No,” he growls. “No, please, Ox, please.”

“Need your reward,” he agrees. “Want you to come in my mouth.” He sucks the tip of Virgil’s dick, slow, keeping eye contact. He takes him deep in his throat, enjoying the moans that elicits as he continues to finger him.

He doesn’t warn him, his chest just rises and falls faster, his cries become more desperate. “Fuck–” is all he says and then he’s coming. Ox flinches as he comes deep in his throat, the hot bitter come coating it, choking him at first. Ox strokes him through it, swallowing frantically. He plops down next to him on the bed, still fully clothed in his sweatpants and pajama shirt. Desperately hard in his briefs. Virgil turns to look at him sooner than he’d have expected, his eyes full of something he’ll realize later looks like love. He puts his hand gently against the bulge in his pants, teasing himself.

“Fuck, Virg.”

“Let me make you come,” he says, and Ox immediately sheds his pants and underwear. Virgil wraps his big soft hand around Ox’s dick and he sinks back into the pillow, overstimulated already. 

“Won’t take much,” Ox says, and it’s an understatement, he comes only a few seconds later all over Virgil’s hands, panting, eyes closed. Virgil plants a kiss on his jaw and brings his hand to his mouth to clean off the come.

They’re quiet for a long time. Ox thinks Virgil is asleep and gets up to turn off the light and go to the bathroom when Virgil says to him sleepily, “You’re traveling to Barcelona, right?”

“Yeah.”

Virgil grins ear to ear. “Good. Roomie.” He turns over and snuggles deeper into the blankets.


	22. Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liverpool travel to Camp Nou in the Champions League for the first time since 2007.

Bobby’s been nursing a knock for ages. He’s hard as nails, and he’s so good even at 70, 80% that Klopp played him through it, for weeks and weeks. They cruised through matches, getting the three points, but often without him on the scoresheet. Now, it’s taken its toll and he has to start the Barcelona game on the bench. Gini plays as an attacker (he does it for the Dutch, the pundits like to point out, and scores goals), and Naby gets another start, thanks to his form. Ox grits his teeth when Gomez is given the right back spot over Trent. There’s an idea that he’s this weak link, but he’s played their entire season – their one-loss league season, their elite defensive season. Ox can’t quite wrap his head around that one.

On the plane, they horse around, tease each other even more than usual. There’s a frantic edge to it. Klopp smiles excessively, fidgets, plays with his watch. He has these hushed chats with Pep; it seems like every time Virgil looks over, he’s deep in conversation. Good thing he texted about rooming with Ox in advance.

There’s just one short session that night, and then it’s matchday. Not enough time, Virgil knows. Not with a new back line. Barcelona are elite: he’s played against them before in Celtic colors. For a long time, that was the best game of his life. They still got stomped 6-1. It was five years ago, and he has even improved since then, but he’d be lying if he said that this didn’t feel like something entirely new.

The hotel bed is warm and forgiving after he steps out of the shower. Keen not to expend energy, he and Ox wanked each other off without much fuss. The hot water and the closeness of their bodies felt like a tonic. He’s gotten into his pajamas and laid on top of his blankets like a starfish.

“By God, look at the size of him,” Ox says in a mock posh accent, walking out of the bathroom, messing around with his hair. “He's a bloody colossus.”

Virgil makes room and pats the mattress beside him.

“You happy to be here?” says Ox as he lies down and puts an arm on Virgil’s massive chest. There’s no one in the world he’d let see him – them – like this.

“’Course, mate,” Virgil murmurs. “Are you?”

“Yeah. Hey, uh. Can I ask you something?

“Sure.”

“How come you wear your first name on the back of your shirt?”

He opens his eyes and then, realizing, tries unsuccessfully to look cavalier. “Long story,” he says gruffly.

“Yeah?” says Ox. That hesitance is rare. He won’t push it.

“Well, not really. My dad’s an asshole.” He glances up and Virgil is staring resolutely at the ceiling. Ox fidgets. He should have guessed, of course. But Virgil always seemed mysterious, removed somehow, not subject to the struggles of mere mortals. He feels a faint, nagging frustration with himself, the reminder to get him off that pedestal. “He stayed around long enough to get my mom pregnant. That was about all he was good for.” He laughs a little, but the sound is harsh. “And then he showed up again after I made it as a pro. All of a sudden he was interested. It’s typical, really. So typical it’s boring."

Ox sits up on his elbow, his face hot. “’M sorry, I… didn’t know. I didn’t think…”

But Virgil is grinning at him: there’s an odd gratitude in it. “And cause it makes me look Brazilian.”

“Ah. _Sí, señor_ ,” Ox says wisely.

Virgil cracks up. “You know that’s not Portuguese, right?”

“Is it Spanish?”

“Yes, sir,” Virgil laughs, and kisses him.

“Yes, sir,” Ox replies. And then, he doesn’t know why he said it, he just opens his mouth and the words come out. “Is that why you never married?”

Virgil freezes. He’s never looked more carved from stone. Ox feels a cold fear come over him and the sensation of being outside his own body. He keeps talking. It’s the only way he could possibly fix it. “Well, I mean, there must’ve been people interested… at Celtic, and Groningen.” He badly mispronounces the Dutch. “At Saints. C’mon. You looking like that.” The flattery falls flat.

Virgil laughs uncomfortably, his gaze dropped. “I—”

“I’m sorry, I overstepped. Sorry. Forget it.” He sits up against the headboard. “Here, let’s watch something. There’ll be an American film on at this hour—”

“No, no, Ox.” Virgil holds his forearm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry. I was just… surprised, that’s all.”

Ox lowers himself back onto his elbow. “Yeah?"

“Yeah,” Virgil smiles. “How much do you think I get to talk about this stuff?” Ox stutters, but Virgil answers for him: “Not a lot, all right?” He sighs. “And I’ve had other things on my mind the past few weeks. Months. Believe me.”

“Right,” says Ox.

When he speaks, it’s slow, careful. “I know there are footballers that get married for… just to get married. Not because they’re in love with their wives. Not because they want anything to _do_ with their wives. But... they take care of them, cook for them, keep them company, make sure they have everything for their trips—” he laughs a little— “and I… I’ve never needed that. I have an entourage. I have friends. I have company.” He glances at Ox with a laugh at the corners of his mouth. “I _love_ company,” he says, unable to help himself. He shrugs. “But I didn’t want to be dishonest in that way. I don’t know if I ever – you know, thought that to myself, but that’s what it is. Guess I felt I’d be letting myself down somehow.”

Ox ponders it. He thinks he likes that answer. He’d probably have said something similar, but he’s also two years younger. Maybe he’ll be married at twenty-seven.

“And yeah, I wouldn’t want to raise kids with someone unless I was ...you know, _properly_ married to them. That’s just me. I’d want to do it right.”

“Makes sense,” Ox says softly. “And when people ask about it?"

Virgil shrugs again. “I have an answer I give."

Ox doesn't want to mention the fear, but he also – desperately – needs to. He wants to ask so badly it hurts. His attempt at a casual tone doesn’t work: “Are you not afraid of… them finding out?”

He smiles ruefully. “Of _course_ I am. Every day. I’d be stupid not to be. But.” He sighs. “I think it has gotten a little bit easier. Getting older. And with you.” He looks away, suddenly shy. “It’s easier.”

“Why is that?” Ox’s mouth has gone dry.

“Dunno, maybe… maybe I like being in a couple.” He’s never used the word. He’s not sure he’s ever thought it. It feels strange and exciting on his tongue and sets his heart racing. His smile has a nervousness to it as he looks up through long lashes. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I _liked_ being single all those years.” Ox laughs, a genuine one that makes Virgil love him even more. “But it’s good to be home.”

“Aw, Virg,” says Ox. His chest is so full he can hardly bear it.

“Sorry,” Virgil says, embarrassed.

“No!” Ox almost yells. “I… I know exactly what you mean, it’s. That’s how it feels to me too. With you. And. Yeah, it was fun to… mess around for all that time. Shag whoever, ha. But it was different. Harder to hide back then. I was a nervous wreck sometimes, man."

“So was I,” says Virgil solemnly.

“I’d never believe it,” Ox admits.

“Believe it. It’s always the ones that seem calm, trust me.”

Ox reaches out to put a hand on his chest. His heartbeat is fast. “Fuck,” he whispers. It’s somehow satisfying to know he has that effect on him. Virgil smiles sheepishly and puts his hand over Ox’s. “Should I worry?”

“No,” Virgil says decisively, and pulls him close. “Just come here.” Ox lets him, lets him hold him tight on top of the hotel blankets, the weight of his arm comforting. It is relaxing, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, his midsection is slipping lower so that his ass lines up with Virgil’s dick. His breathing behind him is getting rougher, his grip on his hip tight, teasing. He can’t tell if he moved or Virgil did.

He curses lowly in Dutch, letting his nails slide over Ox’s hip bone. Ox moves his body forward an inch. It’s late. “Do you want to?”

“Better not.” Virgil’s voice is strained.

Ox turns over to look at him. “I’ll get you off again if you want."

“Really?” His gratitude, as Virgil van Dijk, is sort of ridiculous.

Ox grins and kisses him softly, touches his quickly hardening dick through his flannel pajama bottoms. He makes a sound so desperate that Ox knows he’ll be sucking him off.

“Want you to fuck my mouth,” he murmurs between neck kisses. “Is that all right, big man? Or should I give you a break before the match?”

“Haha.” Virgil laughs, low in his throat. “I can manage it.”

Ox smiles. “Thought so.”

 

 

 

Later, Virgil won’t remember the first moments of the game. The walk out of the tunnel, the warmups, the noise of the crowd in the stands all pass him by, like someone else is in his body. Suddenly, the whistle for kick-off goes and all the nerves hit him at once, buzzing through him, keeping him electric. He tries to focus on reading the game, remembering the chats they had about Barcelona’s front line. Seeing, anticipating, controlling, dictating. Fuck. It feels like his entire career is on the line tonight. His heart’s beating too fast. He has to yell at Gomez because he’s already out of position.

Rakitic commits a nasty foul on Keita early on, cynical above the knee. Virgil feels his skin prickle: so they’re out for blood. The fucker doesn’t even get a yellow and Naby quickly realizes he has to come off. The away fans are in an absolute uproar. There goes the great form he’s in. It’s the last thing they need. Henderson comes on as a first-half substitute and takes the armband from Milly. Virgil fumes silently – Rakitic needs to see a card. City need to drop points. Keïta needs a bit of luck. The public need to give them a little bit of credit, they’re breaking records, aren’t they?

Suarez sneaks past him. Jordi Alba’s ball is perfectly weighted right at his feet. No chance for Alisson, and they’re one-nil down. He hangs his head – this feeling is all too familiar. Down a goal at Camp Nou in the first half. Suarez celebrating like he wasn’t an Anfield hero for years. Messi rolling on the ground as Camp Nou jeers, Coutinho smiling like he’s in any sort of form, like this team is even his.

But for long stretches, their attack is fluid, beautiful, even, their delightful familiarity with each other obvious. They get their chances. They worry the defense and force quality saves out of Ter Stegen. Still, the clock is ticking, and as the second half wears on, it starts to feel like one of those luckless nights. They haven’t had many this season – maybe they’re overdue.

And Messi is Messi. Against the run of play, he dribbles through a few of them and puts Sergi Roberto through. Robbo tackles, but the ball falls to Suarez, who hits the bar, and, before he can think, there is Messi, following it up, controlling the ball on his chest before toeing it into the net. Calm as you like. Two-nil doesn’t flatter them.

That’s before he scores a free kick on 81 minutes. The foul should never have been given, the referee has been ungenerous tonight. But who can stop Messi when he’s in form? He beats the wall, and Alisson doesn’t get there, and like it or not, this is his house. Virgil aches, every part of him, not just because he’s fatigued. He wants to go home and cry in the shower. Salah, Mané, Bobby when he comes on, all of them look shadows of themselves, almost afraid to put the ball in the net.

Seconds before the final whistle, Dembele breaks through their defense with Messi, but scuffs the shot right into Alisson’s chest. Only three-nil when the referee calls it. _Only_ three-nil, he chastises himself. He sees his teammates’ tears and avoids eye contact with them.

Yet somehow the dressing room is a surprise. It’s like no other three-nil loss he’s ever been a part of. No one is critical. No one lashes out. Instead, they talk about how well they combined up front, how they carved open Barcelona – Barcelona! – again and again, how despite everything, they still feel they put up a good fight.

“This is a wake-up call,” Gini says, his kit around his shoulders.

“That’s right,” Milly replies. “There’s still half of this tie to play.”

“I’m proud of you,” Klopp says at the end. “All of you. That was no easy game, but I think we can all agree that it didn’t feel like – what the scoreline said. And they don’t know it. They don’t see it like that. All they see is the scoreline. But _we_ know. _We_ know we’re a match for them, and they still have to come to Anfield. They have to play in front of 50,000 screaming, crazy Scousers, okay? Our luck will come back. It just took a little break today. In the meantime, we’re going to work on our discipline, okay? We have time now to prepare. Hey, listen. You played _so_ well. So well. I’m proud of every single one of you. Take it easy tonight, okay? Don’t think too much about it, we’re traveling again to Newcastle in a few days, so it’s all about recovery. No heavy lifting. All right, Mo?”

The little Egyptian, wrapped in Lovren’s embrace, beams. The rest of them chuckle and chatter as they file out of the barren, uninviting dressing room. Virgil feels a hand on his arm, and he looks up to see that it’s Ox, with a sympathy in his eyes that he can hardly bear.

“Can we not talk about it,” he says, soft as he can. Ox nods almost imperceptibly.

“Gotta let you be a miserable bastard,” Ox mutters, not unkindly.

Virgil smiles, a real one for the first time in what feels like ages, and when he looks at him, it’s with an air of disbelief, like he can’t believe he’s real. “Yeah,” he says, gripping him around the waist, not caring who sees. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Ox smirks. The rush of his touch is enough for the moment, and he realizes there’s a strange, fanboyish part of him, which he’s hardly known since he was at Arsenal, that pities Barcelona for having to finish their Champions League tie at that great, ancient fortress and place of worship that is Anfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ox may not actually have traveled, but let's add that deviation to the other few tweaks I've made.


End file.
